


Greys the Mountain Sends

by blodynbach, bonecharms



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Death, Demonic Possession, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blodynbach/pseuds/blodynbach, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonecharms/pseuds/bonecharms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The bible is filled with demons. If you believe in God, you have to believe in the devil. Jesus himself was an exorcist.”</p><p>September 1994: a social worker with the Followers of the Apocalypse drives out to Jacobstown after being assigned the Boone family. Diane Williams has read the file: following the death of his wife, Craig has been in debt for months and his daughter Melody is spiraling, but help is at hand. The trick will be getting them to accept it, and Diane juggles the case between visits to inner-city Freeside dealing with the Geckos and their son Benny's juvenile delinquency, drinking sessions with her colleague Arcade as they deplore funding cuts under Governor House, and liaisons with the local priest Antony who appears to have a mysterious stake in the fate of the Boones. But when the family attempt to return to church, Melody reacts in a way nobody could predict and Diane is left scrambling. Antony steps forward with a modern take on a very old idea to rid Melody of her ‘demons’…but just how well does he understand the situation?</p><p>An exorcism story told in 3 acts, based on the Legion quest ‘Saving Sergeant Teddy’ with the reading that perhaps Antony had a good reason for taking Melody’s bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unum

**Author's Note:**

> All art within is by the repulsively talented Charlie (magnvmchasma.tumblr.com). Look out for it at the end of important chapters and marvel...!

“Dog, please, just let us in," Diane said, exasperation seeping into her voice. “We just want to help, and we can't do that unless you open the door.”

The dark eyes on the other side of the cat flap blinked, slowly.

“Dog-”

The flap shuttered as the house’s only occupant withdrew and Diane balled up a hand in the pocket of her jacket. She could feel her fingers going numb with cold, and her thighs were beginning to ache from crouching so long; a glance at her watch told her they'd been out here almost 30 minutes. She blew on her hands, peals of foggy breath coating her skin in a humid wash. Beside her, Keene, the town’s community outreach officer, was growing impatient. It was supposed to start snowing at five, and neither of them wanted to be crouched on Dog’s front step in the dark and the wet. Keene rattled the doorhandle and pounded once on the wood in the place where a knocker might have been in another house. He peered through the flap.

He said, unprofessionally, “Open the fucking door!”

Diane straightened with popping legs. “I thought you said not to shout at him. That was the _first_ thing you said.”

Keene glanced up at her from his position on the mat. He was kneeling, water seeping into his slacks. “That was for you; _you_ don’t get to shout at him. He doesn’t know you.” He pushed the flap open with a finger, and they heard movement inside the house. “Me and Dog go way back, right? All the way to Mariposa.”

“Shithole that was,” the first response from Dog in twenty minutes; muffled and hoarse.

“Yeah,” Keene said. “Yeah it was. But we’re not there anymore, are we? We’re in Jacobstown. And it’s 1994.”

“I know,” Dog snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not, Dog. But can you tell me the date?”

There was a pause, and Dog seemed to be considering whether to withdraw into the house and quit the charade in lieu of ...whatever he got up to in there. Despite Keene’s earlier claims that he wasn’t a patient man, Diane knew that was bullshit, and wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of camping out on Dog’s welcome mat all night. Keene and Dog went way back; all the way to Mariposa, like he’d said. They’d been a member of the same underworld in California, and although Keene said he’d never really known Dog back then, he honoured his past. There were a lot of remnants of his people around Jacobstown; a bunch of them had fled south after a prolonged gang war throughout the 70s ended in a massacre with their leader dead. Keene had served his prison sentence and moved on as best he could. He appreciated it wasn’t always easy for people like Dog to follow suit.

Diane watched him scratching a black-green tattoo on the back of his neck, and wondered whether he was getting anywhere, or if this was another one of the red herrings that Dog was fond of tossing their way. Half an hour ago Dog had been on the ‘verge’ of opening the door, only to withdraw into the kitchen after Diane did something wrong. Keene glanced at his watch again.

“This is bullshit, it’s getting on for five,” he muttered. “I don’t think he knows what date it is, he definitely hasn’t been taking his meds.”

“I got that,” Diane said, rubbing one eye. “I’m gonna have to put him down as non-compliance and get someone out here, Keene. Doctor Marcus says he’s missed two appointments as well.”

“Well, if Doctor _Marcus_ says so that changes everything,” Keene growled. “Look, Diane. Go to town, have a coffee. When you come back, I swear to god the door’ll be open and we’ll be drinking tea and popping pills.”

“Great image, but get real, Keene. I’m not gonna do that.”

“Come _on_ !” the aging biker unleashed a kick on the wooden door, which rattled perceptively. They heard Dog moving behind it; away from the volley caused by Keen’s foot. “Come _on_ , come _on_! Fuck-”

“Keene, stop it-”

“Dog, don’t make me do this,” Keene’s boot thudded against wood one last time for show, and Diane saw he was bracing to aim for the side where the lock was mounted. “Last chance, or you’re gonna have snow in your kitchen all winter.”

“ _Keene_!”

“Count of five, Dog. One, two,” a heavy-booted kick sent the door rattling in its frame; a small divot appeared in the wood.

“You need to stop right now,” Diane said firmly, hands planted on her hips. (“Three... fo-”) “If you break that door down, you _know_ I'll have no choice but to contact your parole officer.”

That was enough to stop him. Stepping away from the door, he turned on Diane, towering over her by almost two feet. He jabbed a thick finger, “ _Excuse me_? Whose side are you on?"

“I-”

“Is he eating? Does he even have food in there? It doesn’t smell clean,” Keene’s eyes were burning, lips pulled taut over his teeth. Diane noticed an orange and white shape out of the corner of her eye, and saw what must be Dog’s cat had come home to inquire about the state of his cat flap. It waited on the damp grass, swishing a tail. She felt its eyes drilling into the corner of her back. “You know how he gets when he’s off his meds, and you know what he’s like when he’s _on_ them. All we need to sort this out is for me to get in there, then everything will be _fine_.”

“Keene, I can’t authorise you to force entry.”

“A man’s life isn’t grounds?”

“It is, that’s why I’m going to call _medical_ personnel.”

“When? Tomorrow? Fuck you.”

“I’ll see if Dr Marcus is willing to come out here on emergency call, but-”

“ _But_ ,” Keene said. “Yeah, exactly. You're all the same: bunch of pencil-pushers in cushy offices.” He spat. “I don't get to go home and forget about this at the end of the day; if Dog starves or bleeds out or hangs himself it'll be on my shoulders.”

“I’m _sorry_ , honestly Keene, but your job only carries informal authority. You’re a _support_ officer. You’re not actually allowed to break down anyone’s doors.”

“Fuck you.”

“And, I’d remind you, it’s _courtesy_ that I let you come on home visits with me.” This was a bit of a tall order; Diane knew a lot of Jacobstown’s most troubled would be a whole lot less willing to open up to her without Keene’s nod that she was trying to help and it was the right thing to do. Keene seemed to think this was rich as well, since he flipped her off and stomped away across the lawn. The ginger cat meowed loudly as he passed, but he didn’t stop for it, and Diane watched the huge man’s shape recede down the lane and into the treeline. He’d parked his bike outside the cafe where they’d met for coffee to discuss Dog’s case two hours ago.

Dog’s cat ran over her feet as it dived back through the cat flap, and she heard it greet Dog with mews and a purr. Diane wondered if Keene would sneak back once she’d left to break in Dog’s door for real. Honestly, if she wasn’t around to see it and be made liable, it might be the best thing for him.

“Dog, I’m gonna get in touch with Dr Marcus. Be back in a bit, yeah?”

No reply, but she hadn’t expected one with Keene gone. This town was too close-knit to know what was good for it, and she shunted over the wet lawn to her car. Dr Marcus’ office was over on the other side of town, in the somewhat nicer neighbourhood, and after that she still had to call in on the priest before even _thinking_ about hightailing the 157 back to Vegas area. She popped a paracetamol and leaned back in the seat, wet hair meshing against the headrest. Raindrops began to pitter-patter against the windscreen, and she checked her watch.

It had gone five.

***

The rain had changed into snow by the time Diane finished talking with Dr Marcus, and her windscreen wipers were squeaking as they scraped across the glass. Dead leaves rose to float in gutters alongside the road, and she punched at the AC as her breath fogged the windows. Keene, Dog and the rest of the Californian offshoots tended to stick to downtown Jacobstown, and Dr Marcus occupied a white building in the east by the town’s school; the drive from south to north offered a nice cross-section of the town’s decay. Jacobstown had thrived on a tourism boom in the 50s, feeding off an explosion in Las Vegas’ fortunes by offering city locals the chance for a weekend break in the mountains. Skiing, snow sleds, grotto business at Christmas; all that wintry wonderland stuff. Money got shovelled into the hospitality sector for a good decade, but by the late 70s Governor House changed policy to focus all eyes on Vegas as he found himself staring down the barrel of a financial crisis. In a bid to save the city and state he'd hacked budgets, dropped subsidies, and frozen wages; austerity in favour of crippling debt. What was left in the bank he poured into the lights of Vegas, which glowed on the horizon like a mason jar of fireflies. Jacobstown was left shut out in the cold. Its mines were closed by the beginning of the 80s and the tourism trade dried up; taking with it the inns and watering holes. The old ski resort chugged along a little longer before pootling into bankruptcy; if Diane squinted, she could just make it out in the distance, perched on the north slope. A metaphorical gravestone, or perhaps a ghost; creaking in the wind when gales blew down the mountain.

It came as no surprise that the area was a hotspot for problems. Unemployment, isolation, lack of opportunities - Jacobstown and Vegas weren’t exactly another Detroit, but they were definitely walking the same old road. Diane found herself making the drive up here about twice a week, but she’d never had cause to visit the Catholic church in the east before. She’d gotten directions from Dr Marcus and found it was about a fifteen minute drive from his clinic. The church was a little isolated, and silhouetted against the hulking backdrop of Charleston Peak.

There were yellow lights streaming through the glass to light up the cemetery. Diane passed through the graves and under the eyes of a lichened angel. She clip-clopped a knock on the door.

“Come in, come in,” she heard a man’s voice call, and she ducked gratefully out of the cold into a well-lit room. The church was more modern that it had seemed when she drove by in the past; outside it was white-washed and wooden-trimmed, but inside it had a yellow paint job and warm lighting. There was a priest by the altar who beckoned her down and then disappeared into another room. She followed.

The second room was smaller and looked like a classroom; the man was stacking chairs and gathering papers off the floor. He said he hoped she didn’t mind but he just had to finish tidying up now or it’d be gone nine o’clock before he got out. She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was getting on for eight.

“Bible class?” she asked.

“How’d you guess?” the priest was breaking up a circle of chairs and moving them in threes and twos to the back of the room. “ _The people rise like a lioness._ We were studying the passage in Numbers, do you know it?”

“I’m not religious, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry to assume,” the priest continued to stack the chairs. “Most people around here are, but I suppose you’re from out of town. Where exactly, if I might ask?”

“I work with the Followers program in the Vegas area,” Diane said. “But I’m originally from New Jersey.”

“Quite a way from home.”

“You’d be the same if you were from there,” Diane replied, and the priest laughed politely. She returned to business; “I don’t know if you remember but we spoke on the phone-”

“I remember.” The priest had finished stacking the chairs and began to gather papers, piling them over on the desk. He was not a particularly tall man, especially not in Diane’s eyes after spending the afternoon with Keene, and if they stood shoulder to shoulder Diane thought he might only have a few inches on her. There was nothing else really to comment about his person besides that; he had brown hair, brown eyes, rosacea in his cheeks. His voice was friendly, a little hoarse by nature. “You’re Diane Williams.”

“Yes. I’m here about the Boones.”

“Yes,” the priest nodded, tapping the bottom of the papers so they would sit straight. Diane wondered whether he was taking too long with this task on purpose, and read the writing on the chalkboard in the meantime. The priest finished his work and followed her eyes.

“You know our classes welcome believers of all levels.”

Diane flushed, “Oh, no-”

He smiled, “I’m only teasing.”

“Oh,” she faked a laugh, and decided they’d finished with the smalltalk. She leant back on a desk as she began, “I’m sure you know what this is about - the incident last Sunday.”

“With little Melody Boone,” the priest nodded. “Of course.”

“We don’t have to have a conversation about it,” Diane said, deciding the best thing to do would make this go as quickly as possible. She’d had quite enough of Jacobstown today; after the church she still had to pass by the Boones’ house. Though God knew she’d try to keep that brief. “Things were said, people acted rashly; water under the bridge. I just have to give Melody the bear back now.”

“Mmhmm,” the priest rubbed his chin, and she heard the scrape of stubble against the palm of his hand. “I see your side of things perfectly, Diane.”

Diane paused. “I’m afraid I fail to see yours.”

“Yes, I know I must seem quite the ogre,” the priest began to clean the board. “I take a toy from the small child with a difficult home life, and here I am stonewalling you when you want it back.” He scrubbed away a passage about forgiveness. “Believe me, Melody was acting so… erratically on Sunday. Shouting at the other children, tearing posters off the walls. She tried to bite me. I took the bear to get her attention. I just haven’t had to chance to get it back to her yet,” he shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Mr Boone said that he came in here on Wednesday because she couldn’t sleep without it, and you sent him away.”

“Mm, well, you know Mr Boone,” the priest looked at her secretively, “How do you think that meeting went?”

Diane did know Mr Boone, and coloured somewhat that she hadn’t taken his tales of going to the priest and being turned away on the door-step without more than a teaspoon of salt. Things fell into place a little more cleanly with the understanding that the priest hadn’t turned him away because of the bear - but because of _Mr Boone_. She wondered how he’d behaved, and asked.

“Well, it was during morning mass because he was coming in off his shift, and perhaps… he’d had a drink or two. This is a problem we are aware of and have tried to help him with in the past, as I know you have as well. I turned him away because it was the _middle_ of a service, I couldn’t just - stop to run an errand. He left when he became embarrassed.”

Diane understood why Mr Boone’s version had been a little different, and asked for the bear back again; this time adding an apology. The priest told her there was no need to apologise, and said he’d go through to the office to get it. He disappeared for several minutes, and Diane studied the chalkboard in his absence. The blurred remnants of a list of names and the skeleton of a passage; _I see him now, I behold him, but he is not-_

“Numbers is calling to you,” the priest re-appeared, and Diane tore her gaze away. She could see he was joking again, and she indulged him with the force of a smile that did not reach her eyes. In his hand he held a brown paper bag, stapled at the top and damp on the bottom. He made a face.

“The rainwater found a hole in the back office, so the little guy got a little damper than I’d like.”

“I’m sure Melody will live,” Diane cradled the bottom of the paper bag in one hand so the thing wouldn’t drop out. She felt a mat of fur pressing into the pad of her thumb. “Thanks again, Father-?”

“Lyle, Antony Lyle. Just Antony is fine.”

“Antony, thank you. I know the Boones aren’t the easiest-”

“They haven’t had the easiest time though,” Antony said. “Completely forgivable. Tell Mr Boone he’s welcome on Sunday.”

Diane twisted her mouth. “I’m not sure you’ll see him, but I’ll pass it along. Thanks again.”

She felt herself being shown the door, and shuffled along the corridor with the paper bag wedged under one arm, reaching into her breast pocket for her lighter. She’d smoke in the car with the window half-down on her way to the Boones, and then she’d be out of the town and on the road. With any luck, she’d be home before ten. If she grabbed a pizza from Sonny’s she wouldn’t have to cook.

Antony didn’t watch her weave through the gravestones out front; turning back to the classroom and hitting the lights. His office was damp from the cold but blissfully the leak had been a fabrication, and he leant against the desk as he dialed a number into the telephone. The plastic creaked as he crushed the phone against his ear, and he wound the blue spiral cord around a finger. Mindlessly, he gnawed on it as it reached his associate’s answering machine. He tried again. And again. Finally -

Click. “Hello?”

“It’s Antony here. Social came around, I had to give the bear back to the Boones.”

“Excuse me?”

Clearly; “I had to give the bear back. I’m going to keep a watch on the family, obviously, but I thought - the likelihood is so small after I did the tests - it was better not to alienate the authorities in case anything does come of it. So I gave the bear back.”

The voice on the end of the call paused, and Antony heard it thinking. “Well. I can see your line of thinking. And yes, the bear probably isn’t a problem anymore. If there is one it’ll be the child now.”

“Melody. Melody Boone.”

“Yes, sure. Melody Boone.”

“Unlikely, though.”

“Well. Yes. But my business is unlikelihood,” the voice paused, and seemed to shift. “Are they coming to Sunday service?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Keep an eye on the family as best you can then.  And update me any new information.”

“Of course.”

“Is that it?”

“I think so.”

The man on the other end of the line hung up, and Antony put the phone back in its cradle.


	2. Duo

The next month hazed by. Diane clocked into the office a couple of times each week, went to meetings where they were promised funding that they all knew would never come, and watched her boss Julie dump more and more case files on her desk. She arranged appointments, made home visits, filled out paperwork. She bitched to Arcade and drank rotgut wine when they weren't on call; coffee when they were. (He'd been in grad-school ten years before her, and was twice the cynic for it).  Melody's appointments passed without incident, and the family moved to the back of Diane's mind.

It was just past three in the morning (the previous night had been sober, thankfully) when Diane was awoken suddenly by the drilling buzz of her landline. Groggily, she fumbled for the bedside lamp, finding the switch with one hand and screwing up her eyes as light flooded the room. She staggered out into the hallway as the phone approached its fourth ring.

“Hello?” Diane snatched the phone out of the cradle in the wall, voice hoarse from sleep. A man was screaming down the line. “ _ What? _ Who is this? Craig? Craig who–oh, Mr Boone! Please, slow down–”

It was a good few minutes before Diane could calm the man down enough to make sense of what he was saying. He sounded strangled.

“Jesus H Christ Diane, there's blood everywhere–”

“What?” Diane’s mind snapped into action and she pushed off from leaning against the wall. Her heart climbed in her chest; “Mr Boone,  _ slow down _ , tell me what happened.”

“The dog,” Craig Boone's voice was strained and she couldn't tell if he was crying. “Melody killed our dog.”

***

As the bright lights of the city districts faded into the distance behind her, the first snow of the season was just beginning to fall; delicate  flakes spiralling to the ground like tiny paratroopers. By the time Diane had been on the 157 an hour, it had formed into a slushy flurry which battled with her wipers and reduced her car to crawling along the road. Gnawing her bottom lip, the social worker racked her mind for motivation, reason, significance – and began to wonder. It was November 12th. Carla had died in November, hadn’t she? Was it the anniversary today? She couldn’t pull over to check, but the thought beat a hollow in the back of her skull as she passed Mom’s Diner; the neon  _ Open for Business  _ flashing pink in the night. 

_ Should have grabbed a cup of coffee before I left _ , Diane thought as she took the turn for Jacobstown. Almost there now though; the foliage had shifted from scrub to pine, and the temperature in the car had nose-dived since she’d gotten up into the mountains.

The sun was still firmly slumbering in the dead black sky when Diane pulled into the Boones’ driveway. She could tell from a mile up the road that the lights were all on, and as she got closer saw it looked like people were moving around in the living room and kitchen. She parked and grabbed Melody’s file from the backseat, then cut across Craig’s front yard to the stoop. Snow slipped under Diane’s boots; she slammed the buzzer and tried to scrape the worst of it off onto the welcome mat. The dark felt heavy and animated behind her. She banged on the side of the door with a fist.

“Craig? It’s Diane.”

Diane had tried calling Beatrix before leaving the house; knowing the co-worker kept vampire hours and wouldn’t be disturbed. Beatrix was as close to retirement as anyone ever got in this line of business and tougher than nails. She was wrinkled and scarred and at no guessable age; tattooed with women and names and desert flowers. Her house had rung empty; she tried paging in case she was out and about. The reply came a couple minutes later: 17. In beeper code, that meant  _ no _ .

Arcade was just as useful; she’d got his answering machine thrice before submitting to the fact that she was going this one solo, and hung up the line. Nobody wanted to go out to the sticks at three a.m. for a dead dog.

She hammered Craig Boone’s door again, and waited.

Eventually, Craig opened up and ushered her inside. He looked exhausted as usual: his grey shirt streaked with water and dark spray which might have been blood; wearing flannel bottoms the same shade as the dark smudges under his eyes. Mumbling one or two-word answers to her questions (Melody was fine, she didn't injure herself, he didn't call the police, he didn’t like the police. Just her) he took her through the small living room to the back of the house. In the kitchen, a three-legged German Shepherd lay, its fur soaked and sticking to its body. Blood covered most of the floor; a large kitchen knife had been discarded nearby. Diane picked up a tea-towel from the chair, and covered the dog.

“I woke up when I heard Rex howling,” Craig croaked, voice barely above a whisper. They watched the blood soaking into the gingham cloth. “I don't know how many times she must have stabbed him. We've had him since she was a baby; they grew up together.”

Struggling to keep her composure, Diane turned away from the scene, and tried to think rationally. Melody was the priority. Craig led her to the bathroom, where the near-catatonic nine-year-old sat in a bath of pinkish water. The air smelled of iron.

“Hey Melody,” Diane said softly, crouching down next to her. Water had slopped onto the floor, and she felt her knees growing damp. The room was full of steam, but freezing cold. Diane dipped a wrist into the water. It was like ice. “Let’s get you out of here before you catch a chill, hey?”

“I’m not cold,” Melody said. “I don’t want to go bed.”

“No, we’ll sit in the living room and have a chat.” Diane forced a smile onto her face. “We could have cocoa. Do you like cocoa?”

The girl’s hair plastered her forehead like mould clinging to a shower curtain, and her skin was pale and puffy. Discretely, Diane glanced down at her belly for liver spots, bruises, any tell-tale signs of neglect. Reams of skin, clear as cream, wrinkled back and forth as the water distorted the image. Melody was fine. Physically, at least, but for her eyes as dull as scuffed buttons.

Melody spoke after a moment; a whisper. “Can I have Horlicks?” Horlicks was obviously reserved for special occasions, since her smile came on tentatively.

“You betcha,” Diane said, grasping the child’s hand to help her out of the bath. She wrapped her up in a towelling robe, and put her into the living room whilst she switched the kettle on to boil the water. It was slow to heat, so she studied the kitchen as she waited. The room was Spartan and yellow, the wallpaper earmarked with prints of daisies at the border. She recognised it as the kind that had been popular about ten years ago. One of the walls was flocked with a spattering of blood now. Diane thought that they’d have to redecorate. She wondered if they would have the money, or whether Craig Boone would spend all of today’s morning on his knees, scrubbing at the paper with a damp rag and scouring the colour off the walls in the process. Would he miss his shift as the security guard in the next town?

_ No, he works nights _ , Diane remembered, clattering the metal spoon about the cup as she blended in the powder. She blew on it, and walked through to the living room, where she’d left Melody curled up on the cord sofa.

The girl was gone.

“Melody? Honey?” the mug burned her hand, so Diane set it down on the coffee table. The household’s mail was spread out, indented with red text. Bills.  _ Overdue,  _ because what other kind was there. Somebody in the house was getting charged up the wazoo for medical treatment. She tore herself away; there would be time to look into it back at the office. Diane grabbed the mug and moved through into the kitchen to cool the drink down with a little more milk. The door was open.

Diane remembered closing it behind her.

There was a man’s shadow falling on the tile, cast long by the strip-lighting overhead. Craig must have come back to deal with the dog, Diane thought, and opened the door wide.

Melody loomed over the corpse of her pet. The towel was discarded; thrown back on the kitchen table, smearing the wood with a brown crust. Colour had crept back into the child’s cheeks, and when Diane called her name, Melody glanced up almost languorously.

“What?” as Diane drew closer, she saw with a start that the child’s gums had begun to bleed. Craig Boone pushed past, becoming aggressive as he scooped her up. He’d  _ told _ her not to let Melody back into the kitchen. Anger rolled off him in waves; his child sucked the blood back down her throat.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Diane stammered. “I left her in the living room, I apologise, Mr. Bo-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he jiggled Melody on his hip. “You lot are always apologising. Much good it does me and my family,” he pushed the girl’s hair back behind an ear, and Diane saw there was love in the gesture, but when he withdrew his hand, she thought he was afraid too. She worried he’d tell her to get the hell out of his house, but wasn’t surprised when he did.

“I’ll see you Thursday, Mr Boone,” she called through the slammed front door.

“Fuck off!”

The snow had built up a thick covering on her windscreen when she staggered back across the black lawn, and the social worker cleared it off with a local newspaper picked out of the nearest trash can. The headline was just visible by the stretched glow of the living room’s light:  _ BLEAK WINTER AHEAD. _

_ Ain’t that the truth _ , Diane thought, and gravel rolled under her tires as she pulled out of the drive.


	3. Tres

Sunday came in a blur of low mist and drizzle; the sky looking much the same at seven a.m. when Antony awoke as it did at ten when he propped open the double doors of the church to welcome their Sunday school kids. He’d been up late the night before, watching cooking shows and other things he didn’t particularly like in a bid to stave off sleep, and was feeling it now as he shook the rain off his coat. He’d been having terrible dreams lately, but couldn’t place exactly why. If he was being flippant, he’d blame the weather: there’d been rain every day for a week straight and the humidity was nothing short of crushing. If he was being honest, he’d say he didn’t know why. The air in the church felt unhappy, almost claustrophobic, and as he searched for the light switch with a hand, he missed it on the wall. He passed over the bricks again, and found the switch several centimetres from where he’d expected. He hit it and the room flooding with a yellow buzz.

He stared at the switch on the wall; the little box old-fashioned with a dark torque flicking out. Had it always been so far from the door? Yes, apparently. Where else would it have been?

Antony tugged at his dog collar with a finger and sighed.

The children soon straggled in in groups of twos and threes; brought in by mums and dads and elder siblings. All dripped water onto the welcome mat, and most of them said hi to him when they came in; a few clamouring to tell him their news. The scrape of mud leaving gum boots filled the air, and one girl rushed to show him a new silvery cross she’d got for her birthday. It had a small cheap diamond set in the middle, and the chain was as fine as lace.

He said, “That’s beautiful, Lauren.”

The next news story to reach his ears was piped in yips and squeaks by the tiny blonde Mary, who informed him with delight that she was to be bridesmaid at her mother’s wedding. Her aunty was going to sew her a special dress, with peach chiffon and silky pink roses, and she was going to throw flowers into the air and eat heaps of frosted cake. Antony asked if they were going to have the ceremony in the church and the little girl said she didn’t think so, because her mum’s girlfriend didn’t like the church. Antony busied himself with setting up the colouring station as his cheeks reddened, and Mary said she’d draw him a picture of her bridesmaid’s dress. He said very good. A kid named Todd asked if Mary’s mum was a lezza.

“That’s not a  nice word,” Antony admonished him.

“Is she gonna go to hell, Father?” Todd asked and Mary stamped her foot; curls spinning. Antony knew she had a short temper, and also knew he’d be out on his ass if it got out in the community that he’d given gay marriage the ol’ thumbs up. Jacobstown and its affiliated clergy favoured a medieval curriculum; he’d had to harangue the bishop for weeks before he got permission to use even an acoustic guitar at Sunday school. At that, the bishop had stressed it was only to be used for ‘educational merit’ on ‘rare occasions’ with children ‘under six’. Antony asked Todd if he’d like to clean the chalkboard, which was a special task the kids gloried in for some reason. Todd leapt for the eraser.

Mary was still huddling around his trousers, babbling gently like a mountain spring, and the priest glanced at his watch. It was ten fifteen; probably a little late for even latecomers now. He asked Mary if she wanted to grab the door before it let in a draft.

“Yes, Father,” the girl said before running across the room, feet a-clatter. She shut it with a shove, and immediately it re-opened. A wrinkled crow of a woman with a shock of bright white hair entered, looking for all the world like a crumpled paper bag. Her blue anorak was soaked through and before she blinked her glasses had begun to steam. In one hand she had Melody, in the other a set of car keys. The little girl was shaking raindrops onto the mat.

“Melody!” Antony called with a brave smile. “Great to see you back.”

“We’re not late, are we?” the old woman said.

“A little, but no matter,” Antony motioned her in. “We were just getting started.”

“I’m Daisy Whitman,” the woman said. “Craig’s neighbour. He took a double shift last night, so he was too tired to drive her in. Told him it wasn’t safe,” Daisy tweaked one of the little girl’s pigtails. “And I’m not gonna say no to a little quality time with the sugar plum fairy, am I?” Melody giggled.

“Ah, right,” Antony said. “Will you be picking her up as well? We finish at twelve.”

“No, he said he’ll be up by then.” Daisy began to take Melody’s raincoat off, and Antony held out a hand to put it on the rack. Water flooded his palm.

“Ok dokey,” he stuck it on top of Mary’s for lack of space, and it began dripping onto the stonework. “Why don’t you join the circle, Melody? We’re learning about Jesus and redemption today. There’s a free space by Mary I think.”

“Ok.” Her voice was quieter than it used to be, but she still looked happy enough to take a seat. Antony suspected her good mood was more to do with getting out of the house than her taking pleasure in the Lord’s company. As Daisy scooted for the door, making an excuse about a knitting circle event she was already late for, he wondered if he’d been wrong before; about the bear. The advice he’d got was to keep an eye on the child, and he would, but she honestly seemed ok. Mary was talking her ear off about the upcoming bridesmaid dress, and was telling Melody that when she got married everyone would wear something pink, even her dad. 

“He will  _ not _ !” Melody was delighted.

“He will, I’ll tell him to, and it’ll be my day,” Mary said. “He can wear a pink tie. Or pink pants.”

“Or a hat,” Melody said, and they descended into giggles. Antony smiled to himself; Mary’s dad worked for a trucking company and always wore a faded baseball cap with CRIMSON CARAVAN INC. splashed across the front with a steely determination that might suggest the thing was glued to his head. The idea of a special pink version for Mary’s big day was cute. Very cute.

Siri came in from the other room with the worksheets; she’d been at the library photocopying them all morning since the church didn’t have a machine of its own. Siri was on loan to him from another church to help with the workload, although Antony got the idea she had her differences with their sect. She’d been a protestant once, before her mother died and her father converted the family. Antony got the idea she’d rather like to revert.

He shut the door and clapped his hands.

“Right, everyone! Let’s get started.”

Siri began handing out papers.

***

“ _ Pick up _ ,” Antony hissed into the phone receiver as he reached the answering machine a second time; Melody blubbing as she sat on the desk, pawing at her own hand. He’d left the children with Siri and he could hear their agitation rising from the next room through the open door. He began rooting for the first aid kit in the drawers as he gave Melody the phone to hold. He had to be fast.

“If someone picks up, tell me, yes? And if they don’t, hit this button here. It’ll redial.”

“Who’re you calling?” Melody sniffed.

“Another priest.”

He found the bandages and antiseptic, and Melody grew very still as she listened to the line. Tears were glistening in her eyes, her nose was wet. He heard the sound of a voice buzzing, and snatched the phone out of her hands. 

His associate was halfway through a sentence, “Had better not -”

“It’s me, shut up a second!” Antony hissed. He turned his back on the child, lowering his voice. “I’ve got Melody Boone in my office, we’re at Sunday school. She just touched a crucifix and it inflamed her skin, I need some advice.”

“What? She’s there with you, right now?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

“Oh,  _ uh _ ,” the voice paused. “Alright. Whose cross? Nickel alloy?”

“A child at the school, got it off her mother for a birthday. Girl is Lauren Graham. Cross was silver, apparently. Though I’d like to test that. Melody, come here,” Antony changed his tone and held out his hand, gently. “Can I see where it stung you, please?”

The girl’s hand was still a little plump from childhood; grazed on the knuckles from a fall and he turned it over to look at the palm. The skin had erupted in smooth white spots, like prickly heat, the blisters getting cramped near the cleft of the palm and spreading out closer to the fingertips. She had cradled the crucifix when Lauren had shown it to her; now the rash bled a little in the centre where the silver had twinkled.

“I said to the kids it’s just a nickel allergy,” Antony lowered his voice again as he described the marks. “But it’s quite extreme.”

The voice said evenly, “Swab the area with holy water, and try and get her to hold a crucifix or an item bearing the mark of our Lord. Wood is best, there’s no way she can be allergic to that. Antony, who’s looking after the kids?”

“Siri’s watching them, she helps out around the parish sometimes. I’ll try and do this as quickly as possible, if only for… appearances _ ’  _ sake.”

“Yes, yes.” Antony crushed the phone to his ear as he pulled a spritz bottle of holy water from the first aid kit. He dampened a cloth and told Melody he was going to clean her hand so it didn’t get infected. She had begun to cry again.

 Antony said, “Does it hurt a lot?”

“It  _ stings _ ,” Melody said, flinching away when Antony began to swab the wound. Antony made a sympathetic noise and cleaned the area completely, holding the child’s palm up to the light streaming from the window. It felt hot; he could see the blood right underneath the surface pulsing. Antony crossed the room to peer out at the children and his boot clipped a crucifix he had knocked onto the floor. He asked Melody to hold it whilst he searched for its nail.

Melody said, “Is this the nail?” and held up an iron tack she’d found on his desk.

_ Where the fuck did that come from _ ? Antony thought, and said, “Oh, great, it must be. Hold this a second, sweetheart,” he attempted to give her the crucifix again, and the door to his office banged open. Melody shouted in surprise at the sight of her dad. Antony glanced at the clock and saw it was pick-up time;  _ what the fuck?  _

Where had half an hour gone?

Mr Boone looked at Antony holding the cross up over his crying daughter and asked Melody to step outside. He asked Antony why the pair of them were alone in the office; Antony explained that Melody probably had a nickel allergy and he was getting the first aid kit.

Mr Boone paused a long while and said very slowly, “With the door shut?”

Antony became still. “It’s a heavy door. It shuts itself, I couldn’t find the prop.”

Mr Boone looked at the priest with hard eyes, and Antony could tell he’d heard about the cases in Boston. Mr Boone’s expression was bleary from lack of sleep; face slack but body taut. The phone was turned wrong-ways in the cradle and he wondered if his associate was picking up this conversation. He asked Mr Boone if there was a problem. Mr Boone looked like he’d never been without one; Melody called his name from behind the door. He said to his daughter he’d be just a minute and turned on Antony. He re-opened the door, and to Antony’s  _ agony _ the door did not swing shut by itself.

“Heavy door?” Mr Boone said, and Antony wondered whether he should blame a draft; change his story. Fuck, fuck.

_ Don’t hit me _ , he thought as Mr Boone took a step closer.

“You do not have my permission to go anywhere near my family,” the man said. “ _ Ever _ . I thought I made that quite clear a couple years ago.”

“I am so -”

Mr Boone was done with the conversation; he cut Antony off with a gesture and stalked out of the office, snatching up Melody’s hand as she hovered in the doorway. Antony grabbed the phone off the desk, “Did you catch that?”

“You shut the  _ door? _ ”

“No, of course I didn’t!” Antony snapped, “Is this amateur hour? And what would be the  _ point _ , the classroom is around the corner anyway. It swung shut!”

“Is it a heavy door?”

“Not… normally. Maybe Melody shut it after herself. Fuck.”

“You didn’t think of the implication? Where have you  _ been  _ this past decade, Antony?”

“I did, of course I did! I was making it fast, he wasn’t-” Antony closed the lid of the first aid kit with a slam. “ _ Fuck  _ that looked bad.”

“That was very very incompetent, Antony. Am I going to need to get in touch with litigation?”

“No, Mr Boone knows nothing happened. If he thought otherwise I’d be spitting out teeth. Again.” Antony put the box in the desk drawer and glanced out of the window. He could see the shapes of the children and parents weaving amongst the gravestones as they crossed the cemetery; the ghost of a girl led hand-in-hand by a dark shape must be Melody and Craig Boone. He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not sure he’ll come back now. Argh.”

“Yeah, argh,” he could hear scratching down the line, and knew the events of the day were being recorded in a ledger. Antony was sure he wouldn’t be coming out of this looking too good, and wondered whether he’d suffer a visit from the bishop anytime soon. Lord be gentle. “So, she didn’t react to the holy water or the crucifix?”

“Not the holy water, I swabbed her hand and it was fine. I didn’t have time to test the crucifix on her skin, but I held it before her and she didn’t shirk it or anything.” Antony pressed a fist against his lips as he thought. “Maybe she does have a nickel allergy.”

“It’s quite common.” The scratching stopped, “Would you consider it unlikely that you’ll see her again?”

“Yes. The family has been growing… distant with the church. I think my involvement with the situation ended today.”

“Antony, if there  _ is  _ a situation, you know that’s not how it works,” the sound of a book shutting; finality. “Keep me up to date on all developments, and do your job.”

“My  _ job _ ?” Antony snorted. “Listen to me, there is no job. I’m making a judgement call; she’s not possessed.”

“ _ You  _ don’t get to make that call; I do. And I say this is inconclusive, and to get back to work,” the voice paused. “And to stop running up the diocese’s phone bill with these long distance calls.” 

The line went dead and Antony slammed the phone back into the cradle, plastic creaking under the assault. It would be just as well if he broke the phone; just as well if he found a way to wriggle out of the job and be done with this sad-sack parish in this no-hope town. It had been so long since he’d seen sunlight in winter; so long since the clouds had gotten out of the fucking way and let God warm their skin. He steepled his hands on the desk and looked at the church through his fingers. At some point during that conversation, the door had swung shut on itself.


	4. Quattuor

The mountain of paperwork the dog brought occupied Diane for days. It was clear that the girl should see a psychiatrist, but the last time she'd phoned Mr Boone to discuss it, he hadn't responded well. At first, he'd been sullen and reticent when she'd pressed him to seek help for Melody, before eventually he exploded: “Tell me Diane, where the hell am I supposed to get the money for a shrink?”

"Mr Boone, as I’ve been  _ telling _ you there are financial aid options for a single parent in your position. Help me to help you.”

The clatter of plastic and the buzz of a dead line had been his modus operandi of ending that particular conversation.

“I don't know what to do,” Diane despaired. “She needs professional help, but he won't listen, and I'm too busy to drive up there all the time. They were nothing like this when I agreed to take them on.”

Jacobstown was on the border of the Followers jurisdiction; it was filed as a Vegas offshoot but as the drive was an hour-and-a-half, they weren’t obligated to help out. The Boones should have been falling into the hands of the Spring Mountains social service, but Governor House had cut funding to rural care in favour of urban. The head of Spring Mountain social was desperate to outsource as much as possible, and since Diane’s workload had been a little light she’d agreed to liaise with the Boones when they’d needed nothing more than to know their options. It wasn’t as though she could drop them now.

Arcade made a hopeless gesture, “Di, sometimes that’s just the luck of the draw.”

“I _ know _ ,” she moaned. “And it’s not like I want to force Mr Boone’s hand - get a court order, or-”

“As though you could,” Arcade cut in. “In this  _ environment _ .”

“I know, I know,” she sighed. The state had grown increasingly hostile to the Followers in recent years, and the policy at the top had a ‘hands off’ approach as the best (and cheapest) corrective. Getting the court to go against a family’s wishes was a nightmare. “But that aside, I’m getting emails in my inbox about the Khans and their fucking  _ food bank  _ getting pushed back another two months, what-”

“Yes, me too,”Arcade said loudly. He pointed a cigarette at her. “Diane, you need to learn to switch off. The Khans aren’t even your business, fuck getting CC’d in an email. You know the rez handle all their own affairs.”

“But they clearly aren’t getting the funding, and I thought I’d put them in touch with Keene in Jacobstown who’s trying to get a clothes bank going-”

“ _ Urgh!  _ If I have to hear the word ‘funding’ one more time in this life, I swear…” his voice trailed away, and Diane’s head bobbed.

“I know,  _ I know _ . I actually prefer it to ‘outsourcing’ though.”

“Oh fuck, the things it does to my heart when I open an email and see ‘outsourcing’ in the first line,” Arcade leaned over the kitchen table to top up her Cuba Libre with Bacardi. “Right, let’s shut up about work if we can. It’s  _ Saturday night, _ and my first Saturday night off in two weeks for that matter.”

“My first in three.”

“Alright, there we have it!” Arcade reclined back in his chair, raising his drink as he gestured. “ _ So _ , what are we doing?”

Diane’s brow crinkled. “Looks like drinking in your dirty kitchen.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re doing  _ now _ . And fuck you, I’m always on call, when am I supposed to get time to bleach the sink?”

Diane made a hopeless gesture; “Just calling it as I see it.”

“Listen, if you have time in your schedule you’re  _ more  _ than welcome to be my unpaid maid service.”

Diane snorted at that, and Arcade smiled and rubbed his jaw, “There you go. Knew you could laugh.”

“Urgh, don’t. I’ll over-think it and never laugh again.” She took a sip of her drink and descended into a coughing fit. Arcade’s eyes twinkled as he said she’d have to drink like the big boys sooner or later; it came with the job description. She wiped her eyes as Arcade imposed a no-work-talk rule on the rest of the night.

“Fine by me,” she croaked. “What are we watching?”

“I’m looking,” Arcade was pawing through a TV magazine he found under a stack of takeaway flyers. “AMC is having a chick flick night. God, that sounds good.”

“ _ No _ .”

“I want something light, Di,” he flipped a page. “I’ll cry if you try and bully me into watching  _ Alien _ .”

“I thought you liked Sigourney Weaver?”

“I do, of course I do, but,” Arcade sighed. “I save thrillers for vacation, my heart can’t take it right now. Ummm.” He scanned this lists. “Fuck, we need more TV channels. You’re not willing to run to Blockbuster, are you? I’d kill for  _ Trains, Planes and Automobiles _ .”

“ _ Arcade _ !” Diane guffawed. “That’s so  _ lame _ .”

“I know, I know,” he said with a touch of despair. “I just don’t want a movie that makes me think.  _ Pretty Woman?  _ Or we could just stick on SNL. It’s been so feeble lately, there’s no danger of brain activity from either side of the screen.” 

“I can’t abide Mike Myers,” Diane sipped her drink carefully. She set it down on the vinyl with a menu as a coaster. “You just pick whatever you want and I’ll handle the takeaway.”

Arcade said that was alright, and then paused and added that he needed something with lots of cheese. Diane asked what happened to his diet, and he raised the TV magazine and said they’d had a difference of opinion. He pulled out the menu for Sonny’s  _ Pizza and Stuff  _ in Westside and tossed it her way. “Turns out high cholesterol is so low down on my priorities this week that it’s punched through the Earth’s crust. Go figure.”

“Sounds about right,” Diane said, flexing the menu. She was gonna ask for extra pepperoni.

***

The next day was a Thursday, taunting Diane with a pulpy hangover and the fact the week wasn’t quite done with her yet. Her schedule took her into a McDonald’s at nine for a bolt of espresso, then to Freeside at half past to meet with the Geckos. The sky spat at her all the way, and her umbrella tore inside out. She could feel locals eyeing up the car when she turned down Boot Avenue.

_ Only in Freeside _ , she thought, slamming the door of her piece-of-shit vehicle as she stepped out. 

The city of Freeside was a mess; there was no other word for it. Nowhere else would people covet the dinged up Ford Fiesta still hungover from the 70s, although Diane had to admit the locals all had their reasons. The government strategy to combat the rocketing crime rates (pumping more money into security for the Strip Corporation's gated community nearby) had served its purpose well: what happened in Freeside stayed in Freeside. And what happened was rarely anything good - it was its own little problematic eco-system. The two largest families, the Van Graffs and the Kings, kept the worst of it under control, but both ran protection rackets to cover costs. They kept the drive-by shootings on the low side, but did little about the muggings and brawls. Or the car thefts. It was what a guy in her office liked to call ‘a sore ass of a town’, and that guy had come down from Reno.

Inside the house, Diane blew on the black filter coffee she’d been offered, hoping to avoid scalding her tongue when she took a polite sip. It tasted like dirt, and stale dirt at that. Across the scratched and cigarette-burned kitchen table sat a twitchy red-haired woman and her dark-eyed husband, who both insisted that 12-year-old Benny's black eye was from a fight at school. One of the older kids had been calling him names, Benny's father told her. As the man moved his arms around, the black gecko tattoo on his bicep jumped as if darting away from a snake. “I'd never lay a hand on the boy.”

Diane nodded, fumbling to reassure them that this was just procedure; no one was accusing anyone of anything. A bluebottle circled around their heads, buzzing loudly, before eventually moving to hump the grimy kitchen window. Through the fabric of yesterday’s jeans, Diane could feel her pager beep. Julie was attempting to get in touch, and urgently. She let the Geckos make excuses for a few more minutes and then asked if the phone box out in the street worked.

“I don’t think so.” In an insincere effort to get Diane on side, Mr Gecko said she could use their house phone. It was just out in the hall.

“Thanks,” Diane said. “It can wait until after-”

“No, no. Go right on, we’ll wait,” he had a strong local accent, and when he smiled Diane saw that one of his teeth was gold. She ducked out into the hall and dialed the office line. Arcade handed her over to Julie.

“Hey, Diane. Mr Craig Boone keeps ringing the office trying to get through to you; I told him you’d be back about twelve but he said he needed you ASAP. He wouldn’t let me hand him over to anybody else.”

“Sounds like Mr Boone,” Diane tried not to fume: the man had spent a week dodging her calls. She asked Julie to pull his number out of the file on her desk, and she wrote it down on the back of her hand. She thanked her boss and dialed the Boone house.

“Hello?”

“Mr Boone, Diane here. Heard you were trying to get in touch.”

“Diane, yeah.”

She tried not to sound testy, “Is it urgent, Mr Boone? I can have a proper talk with you in about an hour, but right now I’m actually with a client. Is it an emergency?”

“I’m a client.” Mr Boone said bluntly.

_ Yes, and not the only one.  _ Her throat itched; she supped the coffee and lowered her voice since the Geckos were surely listening. “What is it, Mr Boone?”

She thought he heard him shifting from foot to foot. “I work nights, you know. I can’t leave Melody in the house by herself,” Mr Boone clicked his tongue, and mumbled off some passing comment too quiet about scum in the town. She wanted to say, you want scum, come to Freeside.

“Why is this a problem all of a sudden? Did you change shifts?”

“Not exactly.” He didn’t elaborate, until she cleared her throat. It was like pulling teeth, but it eventually transpired eventually that an elderly neighbour - Daisy - had been looking after Melody the nights Craig worked in the town over. The past tense was relevant, since it seemed like that set-up was no more, and without her, he’d been left in a lurch. Diane dug, but all she could get from him was that Daisy was now refusing to help out. She drank her coffee and decided the call must be getting expensive, so said she’d have a look into what Mr Boone could do.

As she spoke, a bony boy with glistening eyes watched her from the living room; mustard dripping out of a baloney sandwich onto the rug. The lights of the colour TV danced over his face. Diane promised she’d get back to Mr Boone by Wednesday and he didn’t thank her, just hung up with an ‘Alright’. She got down to the dregs of her coffee and went back into the kitchen.

Between appointments a couple of days later, Diane scouted programmes for Melody. Flicking through a red and yellow leaflet for Phoenix After-School Care, Diane couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between Craig Boone and his neighbour. Had the man lost his temper with her, too? Frustrating as dealing with him was, Diane sympathised. It couldn't be easy raising a little girl all on his own. She ran some explanations in her head as she grabbed a lighter to head out for a smoke and settled on a scenario where the old lady busted her hip running after the kid. It would explain why Craig Boone sounded so cagey - he was probably worried he’d get sued or something.

Arcade was coming in from the deli across the road with an oozy meat something clasped in his fist. At Diane’s judgemental expression, he said his diet was buried it in a shallow grave outside Vegas and for her to keep quiet if she didn’t want to wake up with a horse’s head in the bed. She said she’d appreciate having anyone warming her sheets, alive or not, and he gagged with a laugh. He loitered so he could breathe in her smoke; he’d quit a few years back.

“I thought  _ you _ were quitting anyway,” he said.

“For Christmas,” Diane replied. “My lungs had better appreciate it. I just hope Craig Boone is off my plate by then, he’s giving me a headache.”

“Oh?”

“God,” she knuckled an eye. “Now he’s pissed off the neighbour who used to care for Melody, so he needs free or seriously cheapo care for the girl on nights. Do you know any place around Jacobstown that’d take her?”

Arcade crammed a wodge of sandwich into his mouth, and spoke manfully around it. “Lily and Leo’s?”

“Closed down. Leo died.”

“Dang,” he said. “I don’t know. That’s the problem with being in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, there’s nothing there.”

“Yep. Apart from the buttfucking, I guess.”

“Crass. Why’s the neighbour washing her wrinkly old hands of Melody anyway? What did she do, kill another dog?”

“Don’t say that,” Diane frowned. “And I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her. She’s called Daisy Whitman; I got her number out of the pages.”

Arcade swallowed a big lump of meat. “Balls.”

“What? You know her?”

“She’s my great-aunt,” he stuffed the last of the meal down his throat, “And I am not calling her for you, so don’t you even  _ dare  _ ask. I already did my duty at Thanksgiving.”

It took a lot of badgering and a promise to buy his coffee for the rest of the week (a tall order: the man swallowed cappuccinos like water) before Arcade finally agreed to phone Daisy. It was fifteen minutes of pacing and finger-tapping before he returned to her, Diane back to sifting pamphlets behind a desk. His hair looked unkempt, and stuck out at odd angles like he’d run his hand repeatedly through it.

“Listen Di,” he started, sounding uncomfortable, “ever since I was a kid, Daisy's had cats. She never married, so I guess they kept her company up there. The two she's got at the moment are Doris and Flo; they're as mild-mannered she is.”

Diane nodded, silently wondering why her coworker was telling her this. Overhead, the cheap white lights flickered and hummed.

“When Daisy was asleep last week, Melody snuck out the house, and she--she skinned the cats.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“... then strung them out on the washing line. Daisy found them when she went to hang out the laundry the next day.”

Diane was too stunned to speak.

“Well at least it's cold, right?” he said with a weak smile. “Can you imagine if she'd done this in July? Every dog within a two-mile radius would be in Daisy's yard by now.”

Diane's stomach flipped. Her palms had begun to sweat. “Arcade, this girl needs serious help. It's my fault, I should have-”

“Hey,” Arcade placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “This isn't your fault, Di. None of us could have seen this coming. It’s not the kind of thing that’s predictable.”

Diane stared down at the purple leaflet for the now defunct  _ Lily n’ Leo’s _ . She shouldn't have taken Craig Boone's no for an answer. She should have seen the warning signs long before Melody killed Rex, let alone now. Timing was everything in this line of work. You had to be on the ball, you had to-

“Fuck!” she whispered.

“I'll phone Julie and update her; we'll find a psychiatrist in the morning,” Arcade said gently. “Meanwhile, you need to get home and get some sleep. You're overworked.”

“So are you.”

He quirked a smile that he didn’t mean. “I've got ten years on you, I'm used to it.”


	5. Quinque

They were supposed to get to the doctor for nine o’clock, but Craig had slept through the alarm. Then the car his buddy Manny had lent him whilst his own was in shop hadn’t had the snow chains put on the tires yet, and he had to fix them up before they left.  Melody ate her fruit loops on the front stoop so she could be with him whilst he worked. The chains were cold and claggy in his palms; the snow on the ground sucked up to his knees. Melody went inside to wash up her bowl and put on a coat, and Craig circled around to the back tires. They were getting close to being worn down to the tread; Manny would need new ones soon. Craig wondered if his job got him the money for this kind of realisation not to be a constant ball-ache until it was dealt with. Manny didn’t have a wife and kids, so maybe. But his job was only in the bar at the edge of town, and he hadn’t saved what he’d earned with Craig when they’d toured in the Middle East together back in the old days. So maybe not.

He and Manny hardly spoke now; not in the way they used to. They’d still do favours for one another as a way of acknowledging their past, but despite both working nights they’d drifted apart. No more coolers of beers drunk out the back, hazily watching Melody cartwheeling on the lawn; no more coming over for the game and shouting at the TV set. Manny had soft eyes and a good smile; nice with kids. He’d fist a hand into his coat pocket and bring out a palm full of fruit candies when he saw Melody. But their friendship had withered over the last couple years. Craig remembered how Manny never liked Carla, his wife. How Manny had skirted around the fact and Carla had dissolved from the house when Manny was about; there had never been anything specific, and it took a hard man to cling fiercely enough to the haze of supposition to make it fact. Craig managed.

“Seatbelt,” he said, and Melody buckled in. She was wearing a yellow dress with a pink waterproof coat, and those thick wool tights that the kids have in uniformed schools. Her coarse brown hair was pulled into two plaits, shuttered with bobbles that had plastic daisies on. Craig thought she looked like her mother. He was going to say something, but remembered Daisy’s cats and the shine of Rex’s blood glistening on their yellow tile. A lump formed in his throat and became a gateway to words. 

“Can we put the radio on?” Melody asked, and he gestured stiffly that she was welcome to try. She fiddled about, and a country song surfaced out of the FM station. Something about a Blue Moon; it sounded like Sinatra. His old friend’s speakers were shot to shit though, so it crackled as though Sinatra was calling to them from down a long tunnel with the train jamming the tracks. The car dipped into potholes and Melody lolloped up and down in her seat. The suspension was terrible.

“Sorry hon,” he cleared his throat. “Not like our old Chevy, is it?”

“Nope,” she said, turning her head to look out of the window, beginning to scrub her sleeve to clear the fog off the glass. She sang the lyrics to Blue Moon in a lilting way; she didn’t fully know the words and would guess how they slopped into one another with mixed success. Sinatra’s voice faded in and out to make a duet, and Craig put on the AC to defog the windows. A treeline of cedars beckoned down the road, but they turned off into town. 

Craig felt something scuttle down his spine, and shifted around a little. Water splashed up the sides of the car in waves, and he huddled deeper into his coat as the cold gnawed his bones.

“ _ And when I looked at the moon, it had turned to gold. _ ” Melody trilled. The potholes in the road shook her tiny frame.

***

Dr Marcus’ office was around the corner from Park Lane school in the nice part of Jacobstown. He was probably the most educated man in the town, sitting square on two degrees and a PhD from the University of Colorado Boulder, but that wasn’t a great boast when the majority of the locals didn’t make it to graduation, let alone college. He specialised in child psychology and wrote in scientific journals about the impacts of poverty and how important a good home life was in the development of a healthy brain. He was a respected, if not well known name in his field; a lot of that coming from his decision to settle out in the middle of nowhere and not budge out of it for the past ten years. God knew he was missing out on the thriving scene in New York. If he really wanted to make a name for himself he should shack up with a university and be one of those professors who hardly ever teach. Somehow Marcus could never quite bring himself to take the idea seriously. He was too fond of the big air and the pressure of the mountain breathing down his neck; he liked walking on his day off and going to bed to the sound of nothing.

He’d done the big city thing in his youth anyway; carding through the counties back west in Oregon and California and following various friends into trouble. It had been fairly harmless until a certain one wrapped his head around the fact that peaceful protest wasn’t changing the times fast enough. Marcus hadn’t disagreed, and the ensuing protest-cum-massacre had been splashed across the front pages all over the world; a blur that was Marcus’ half-likeness just clipped in the bottom left.  _ That _ got Marcus dropped on the FBI’s shitlist. His ma hadn’t been too happy about that one. He remembered standing in the hallway of some friend-of-a-friend’s house in Reno on the phone to her, and Ma biting his ear off whilst he studied the wallpaper. What she’d said, he couldn’t recall; the awful orange 60s patterns however were forever indented.  _ Orange and green, Ma!  _ He’d wanted to interrupt,  _ Ma, I’m in a house where they thought  _ **_orange and green_ ** _ was a good idea for their hallway! _

He didn’t say it though; never knew who might be listening back in those days. FBI, CIA. He and his friend pissed a lot of people off; a lot probably  _ were  _ still pissed off, though God knew he hadn’t worn the black glove in a good twenty years. It had been the wallpaper which got to him in the end. He wanted to settle in a place where he made a telephone call and looked his own home decor decisions in the eye. No more semi-trap houses passed through, no more other people’s mothers and sofas stuffed with crumbs. He wanted a view; he wanted blue walls he could hang his landscapes on. He got a second education on someone else’s money, a third on a grant by some since defunded board. He moved to the mountains, and there he remained.

And that day he was sat in the cubbyhole of his blue office; sunlight streaming through the mismatched glass to warm yellowing papers. The fern on the windowsill had just been watered and was glistening with pleasure; a bee rattled about the fan above his head that was gathering dust in the cool weather. His nine a.m. was sliding into a nine thirty, and Dr Marcus pulled yesterday’s Sudoku out of the top drawer. The ruled squares were littered with the faint corpses of half-erased numbers; testaments to battles lost as he almost had it. He realised his last decision to put a 4 in the corner of the middle square had been incorrect, and sighed softly. There was a gentle knock at the door.

A little woman with grey-blonde hair and rouge burning up her sinking cheeks came in and put some papers on his desk. Her voice was like a powder-puff and she said, “The Boones just signed in. Your nine a.m., the little girl and her pop referred from social.”

Dr Marcus glanced at the plastic clock on the wall and looked back at the receptionist. She shrugged, “Nine a.m., nine thirty; what’s it matter? Although you can still see them if you want. You don’t have anything until eleven twenty five.”

“Right,” he rubbed his chin. “They didn’t say why they were late?”

“No. They live in Jacobstown though; twenty minutes away. I don’t know…”

Dr Marcus waved a hand, “Let’s just leave it for now. Send them in.”

“Both?”

“Yes please, Suzy. I’ll probably send the little girl out in a minute though.”

Suzy said she would and headed out the door to speak with the family. The clock tocked once, twice, and then in came the Boones: Craig in his brown winter coat and a red baseball cap that he snatched off indoors. His daughter clung to the hem of his jacket, eyes shining out of her face. They took a seat in the pale blue chairs, and nobody apologised for being late.

“Hey, I’m Dr Marcus,” Dr Marcus said. “You can call me Doc, Marcus, or Dr Marcus. I don’t mind. It’s all the same to me.” Melody smiled at that, and Craig Boone’s eyes looked dull. They darted around the office as the colour rose in his cheeks. Marcus guessed he wasn’t comfortable being inside a shrink’s place. He asked Suzy to show Melody around for a few minutes so he could talk to her old man.

“Mind if I call you Craig, Mr Boone?”

Craig Boone shifted his shoulders up and down, and Marcus gradually began to tease words out of him. It was like tickling trout, or getting the tweezers around a splinter and inching it loose. They talked about how he’d been keeping, what he thought about his daughter, why he thought she was acting out like this. Where he was with God right now. Diane had told him that the Boones had pulled out of church. She said she thought there was history there.

“You think that’s relevant?” Craig shifted again. It was as though the church gave him ants.

“Do you?” Marcus said.

Craig Boone’s face creased. He looked like a man that liked to hide behind things; sunglasses, the brim of a cap, the cool glass of a security monitor. “You’re playing mind games.” He withdrew back into the dappled shallows; the flick of his tail sent ripples. Marcus took his hand out of the water.

“Ok. Sorry.” He stuck his hand back in. “We need to talk about your wife, Mr Boone.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Coincidences aren’t as common as people like to believe,” Marcus said. “Your wife passes, your daughter acts out. If it helps to think of it this way, we’re both in this office for her, not you, Mr Boone. She is grieving, Mr Boone, and she’s spinning. You can’t ask her why she has done these things –”

“You’d better not,” Craig Boone interrupted.

“Because she won’t know herself.”

“She doesn’t even remember doing it,” Craig said. His voice, which had skittered before at the mention of his wife, flattened into a pancake of a drawl. Regression; back into the soft old boot that was the place he came from. Low sounds, a blur of consonants. “We spoke about it, I thought it coulda been someone else, with Daisy’s cat. Daisy wa’nt there to see. But I saw her kill our dog.” He stopped talking. Marcus watched the baseball cap in his lap become crumpled as the man’s fist bunched. “Last night I was doing the laundry.”

He didn’t elaborate. Marcus waited for a moment, aware of the dangers of asking  _ and _ ? Craig Boone dropped his eyes to the floor, “One of her dresses got blood on it.”

Marcus said, “A lot?”

Craig Boone said. “About as much blood as’d be in a mangy cat.”

“From your neighbour’s? Was that –”

“Doc, she wears her PJs at Daisy’s house. What I was washing yesterday was a dress,” Craig’s eyes moved from the floor, roaming over the certificates nailed to Marcus’ walls.  _ Developmental Psychology. Family Social Science.  _ The crisp cream paper with the gold edge and the black ink, the photograph of Marcus in his graduates’ gown circa 1979. Craig Boone didn’t look intimidated: he looked evaluative. As though he were sizing up:  _ is this good enough for my daughter? Can we do better? _

“I’d like to talk to Melody,” Marcus said, and Craig Boone sucked his cheeks. He didn’t look like he’d come to a decision. The doctor waited until the man exhaled heavily with an ever-so-slight nod of the head; then, he called Suzy. 

***

Half an hour later  Marcus shut the door to his office, pacing the room to stretch his long legs. On the wall to the right of his desk, Monet’s red sun perched over the waters of Le Havre, and Marcus was suddenly struck by how it resembled an eye, silently watching as the sailors came and went. Craig had seemed less than impressed with their first session. Marcus got the idea that the man had expected an hour of dusty Freudian lingo accompanied by an endless pile of ink splat interpretations ( _ how many of these resemble a dead dog? _ ); the reality had probably struck him as unprofessional rather than tailored for a child. There had been a lot of talking (low-key introductions only); a bit of drawing (“An emotional thermometer,” he’d explained, “A Melody-meter. When you don’t feel like talking, you point to what you’re feeling.”); a little writing (“Now, I want you to keep a sort-of diary for the next week. Every day you take one of these little stickers - the happy face, the sad one, the angry one, there are five different ones - and you write down what you did that day. Like if something made you happy, or annoyed you, just a little note.”) Melody had perked up a bit at being given a role to play, and had picked a lime green notebook from his desk drawer. He’d explained to Craig out of earshot that it was important that the diary was Melody’s alone; privacy and trust were essential to tracking her emotions and finding her triggers. That was one of the last things that had been said, Craig’s slight confusion and endless delicate nods to show he was still listening were all the man had left to give. He saw them out, all the way to the front door, and Melody led the way with a skip and chat about what would be for lunch. Craig’s shoulders were knotted over as he slipped out the clinic, and Marcus thought about how he should see someone too. He didn’t suggest it; it wasn’t easy to get help in Jacobstown without a long drive southwards. Single parents were pressed enough for time as it was; he knew Mr Boone would think it ludicrous to accommodate for his  _ own  _ mental well-being as well.  _ I’ll manage, Doc _ , would come the reply; predictable as rain and similarly depressing.

Marcus knew he ought to begin their file, ought to fill out forms suggesting to social whether their money was being well-spent and whether the appointments ought to continue. He had to code how strongly he felt about this; did he believe the family were in any danger at all? He had half an hour to do this before his eleven thirty got in, yet Marcus found himself powerless to do anything but chew a yellow pencil and stare numbly at a crack in the plaster on the wall. Had that always been there? Perhaps, but not so large. He ran his hand over the mottled blue paint, feeling the bumps of dirt and air bubbles trapped underneath the surface. The crack was wider than hairline and ran from the edge of the desk to above his head; the length of an arm with fingers outstretched. He traced it gently, thinking. The wall felt cold to touch.


	6. Sectus

Craig Boone paced the length of their small hallway: four steps forward, four steps back along the scuffed floorboards. He counted without realising it; not so much a hangover from the military as from having a personality that always had to know where everything was. Carla used to chide him for it some days; said it made him dull. But other days it was what she loved him for. She’d had a hard life before they met; it helped her to know what was going to happen when she woke up in the morning. He missed that.

The light streaming in from the front door’s window was fogged by the distortions of the glass, coming in dull and grey, and sapped what life might have lit the hall. The wallpaper which had once been peach was washed wan, and threaded with ghosts where photo frames had hung. They lived in the cupboard under the stairs now.

Craig called his daughter’s name; his voice knocked on the thin walls and bounded up the stairs.

“We’ll be late,” he said.

“I’m coming.”

Melody appeared in the doorway, dark hair pulled back in a braid; fringe flattened under a plastic headband. She always picked out her own clothes, though once that had been Carla’s realm, and was obstinate in what she wore: today striped dungarees with a polka-dotted shirt, and a yellow jumper piled on top. The dungarees were cutting off at the ankle, and he realised she must have had another growth spurt. They’d have to get new clothes. An inward cringe at ducking under the doors of Salvation Army again.

“I don’t feel well,” she mumbled, and Craig said, “I know hon.” She jammed her feet into black wellies and pulled on her waterproof.

“But the doc thinks it’s a good idea, so we’re gonna give it a shot.” Craig said. Dr Marcus had insisted, actually, last week spending most of the session explaining how the familiar, safe environment of the church and contact with other children would do Melody nothing but good. When Melody left the room, the doc pulled him aside; said he could use a morning off, and pointed out it looked like days since he’d had a good night sleep.

 _Weeks, doc_.

The drive to church was uneventful, and smoother for having their own car back. Their breaths fogged even with the doors shut and after Craig ramped the heaters up the air slowly shifted from frigid to tepid. It was unusually cool for this time of year. The Chevy purred as it crawled along the road, fog lights glaring at the mist sent down from the mountain.

Melody rummaged through the cassettes in the glove box, and picked out one to listen to. It was rap music – from the 80s, and very explicit. Craig frowned and asked her where she’d got it. She shrugged. He switched it off.

“Sorry,” he felt like an old man, and drew the line at the word _inappropriate_. He said she could try the radio but they got nothing but static. Mechanics must have missed that.

The street outside the church was always lined with cars at this time of the week, so Craig pulled up on the corner. Damp air clung to their clothes as they trudged downwards, Melody looking more miserable with every step she took. When they passed through the open gate, the air shook with the sound of wings as several crows took flight from a dark tree in the church’s front yard.  Melody's grip on his hand began to strangle.

“Nothin’ to be afraid of,” Craig said gruffly, in an attempt at comfort. Carla was always better at this stuff, but he knew he had to learn and try. He squeezed her hand. “S’a house of God.”

He thought back on his childhood and how discomforting he’d always found his own ‘house of God’; how the cold black pews of the white stone church had been unforgiving on his ass, especially on days his mom switched him; how the priest had met his eyes with a blank stare that always left him cringing and ducking with imagined guilt. How his mom would say things like _we are born into sin, Craig, and must work all our lives to repent._ The hours of prayer for his brother not to get drafted, and then when he did, the hours of prayer that he might come home again. Kissing his own steepled hands to send loving begging up to God, and then when his brother did come home - finally, finally - all the candles they lit and thanks they made. There was a special mention by the priest in the mass that Sunday, and all the Boones had glowed with relief and pride. Craig hadn’t, and he’d said to God, _Dear Lord, why did you only send back half?_ A few years later, God had taken that half back too, and Jesus watched from the cross whilst tears dappled Craig’s best black clothes. His mom had dropped dirt clods onto the coffin as the priest intoned all the right words, and he’d thought, _Lord, I don’t understand this at_ **_all._ **

Craig did not hold with the malarkey of a happy church; the jingle of guitars and the songs about Jesus loving you, you, yes you. He didn’t think God and religion was anything that was supposed to be understood, and nor was it supposed to make you feel better - it simply _was_. But he knew that wasn’t something that would help a child, and he saw real fear in Melody’s eyes the closer they got. Her little hand squirmed in his own like a bait-worm, and he crouched down. He kissed her forehead.

“I know it’s hard, hon.” He didn’t actually; didn’t know why this was hard. Didn’t know what Melody knew, wondered if she’d found something out. “But what are you afraid of?”

Her eyes dabbed around the cemetery, but she didn’t speak. He tried again. “Melody, are you a good person?”

The plan was to say _well then God’s gonna want you back in his house_ once she said yes. But she didn’t say anything at all, and damp fingers of wind tugged at their clothes as they stood, unmoored, amidst limestone graves. The sky wept down.

Daisy, Diane, Dr Marcus, Craig thought. Antony. People like that always had a lot of ideas on how you should raise your kids, despite having none of their own. They talked a good game, but they didn't know what it was like. They didn’t feel the tremors passing from your child’s hand into your own, the quaking. They were trained in the city. But take them out here, what did they know? He brushed his daughter’s hair back from her face.

“No,” Melody said suddenly, jerking away. The rain that had been gentle began to hawk.

“Mel, hon-" Craig started, gently. He reached to take her hand again, but Melody shrunk, stepping away. The tears she had been blinking back began to overflow, dribble down the pink swells of her cheeks. In the loaded silence, neither one of them moved. The rain found the weaknesses in his clothes. Melody slapped her own face.

The noise ripped through the air and hit Craig square in the chest. The shock winded him, locking his muscles as for a few surreal moments he was reduced to spectating the grotesque show; unable to move as Melody balled her little hands into fists and began laying into her own face and body, angry red marks flushing her skin as she hit harder and harder. Then all at once Craig Boone lunged for his daughter, pinning her arms and yelling for someone, anyone to come help. Melody was screaming now - a piercing wail that rattled his skull - and lashing out at him, hands sinking and digging into the dirt of his palms. She nicked half-moons of blood; the skin of her father bunching up under her nails. As he turned to the church, she bit his hand and shed her coat, sprinting down the path.

“ _No_ !” she shrieked, almost running out onto the road until Craig dived for her and they rolled over, the cold wetness of the ground punching into their jeans. As he wrestled with her for a second time, the church doors clattered open, and the priest stood at the top of the steps. He seemed to pause and consider for a moment, as if asking permission ( _granted,_ Craig thought fleetingly, _fucking granted_ ) before he ran over to help. His boots slipped and slid in the mud.

It took two of them to hold Melody still enough to carry, and even then it was a struggle to bring her into the church and out of the rain and cold before she could hurt herself even more. She kicked at them wildly, like a hare caught in a trap. The bones in her legs straining; eyes rolled so far back the little red veins at the base of the ball bulged.

“What’s _wrong_?” he said hopelessly, and she thrashed a bruise into his thigh.

When they finally set her down inside she made a break for the door immediately, bolting; it took both of them to pin her down as she seethed. It was a moment before Craig Boone realised - with dismay - that many of the other children from the class had already arrived. Most of them were standing a distance away, watching with open mouths, but a few were crying. When he met Antony's eyes, they were filled with a desperation that was not reassuring.

Their heads rose as with a sudden creak the church doors opened, and Siri ducked inside with a handful of papers. She’d been gathering song sheets which had slipped Antony’s arms and blown out over the cemetery.

“Hey!” Antony shouted over, and the woman's eyes moved from the chaos around the room to him. “Can you watch the kids for five minutes?"

Siri’s mouth was open but she nodded quickly; moving deeper into the room and herding the children away from the scene. “Mary, come here,” she hissed at the little girl who’d begun to wander over to Melody. The girl darted back into the group.

The muscles in Antony’s arms began to ache as they fought to hold Melody down. Silently, the men counted down from three, before hauling themselves to their feet and moving to wrestle the girl out to the car. She clawed at them, and bit Antony's wrist. He gritted his teeth, words sticking in the back of his throat. Craig bled from the palm.

Even with the efforts of two grown men, it was a difficult task to get her down the street, and God only knew how Craig managed to unlock the car. She'd calmed down a little once they left the church, and the pinks and reds of her skin had begun to melt into a darkening blue.

“Fuck,” Craig muttered, before taking a few steps away from the car and shouting, “ _Fuck_!”

Antony stood by, unconsciously rubbing at his wrist. The bite hadn't broken the skin, but it had begun to deepen into two dovetailing rows of purple pockmarks. He watched as Craig's fists balled up over his eyes, the man running a hand over his face and shaved scalp.

The priest glanced over to the car, but his daughter gone quiet, and sat tensed up in the back like a cat over a bath of water – her knuckles white with gripping the fabric seat. She shook.

“That fucking psychiatrist,” Craig Boone spat, “city-raised sonofabitch.” He cursed the air blue, and Antony sat on the wet curb. After a while, Craig reached into the car. He did not touch his daughter, but took out a black cassette tape. He broke it into several pieces on the ground.

Antony thought the black ribbons of the cassette looked like the manifestation of snakes.

“Mr Boone,” he said. Craig Boone sucked the blood on his arm. “Mr Boone. Your daughter needs help.”

“ _I know_ ,” Craig wound a handkerchief around the punctured skin of his hand. He was calming down; voice shaking with the effort. “She’s seein’ a shrink. He told me to take her to church.”

“Mm,” Antony lit a cigarette, and offered one to the other man. Craig declined. The blood soaked through the chequered cloth, and the rain fell down all over their bodies. Antony could feel his pager pulsing in his trouser pocket.

He said, “I think I can help.”

***

He packed the family off into the faded truck with a promise to call around on Monday afternoon, weather permitting. The broken cassette whined as the car’s front tires drove it into the road, and Antony kicked the pieces into a drain before a child got cut. He returned to the cave of the church.

The children gathered around his legs, bristling with questions that he cut short with a hand.

“Sorry, kids,” Antony shook the rain off his clothes. “I’ve got to call your moms and dads. Class is cancelled.” He retreated into the office, and spent the next half-hour telephoning irate parents to pass on the message. For every “why”, he said _I’ve received some awful news._ They all made the sounds you make when somebody dies, and he agreed with a low murmur. Eventually he managed to hang up the phone, and got ready to make the call that mattered. Siri herded the last of the children out the door, and watched Mary disappear through the church gate and down the path. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed something white flapping, and realised she must have missed a song sheet. She wove a path through the graves to reach the feet of a lichen angel; the paper was caught in the cleft of its arm. Something warm dripped on her hand, and her head shot up as she anticipated the rain’s revival.

No, not that. The angel’s eyes were bleeding. Twin drips, red as roses, falling on her hands. Siri ran indoors to fetch the priest, but by the time Antony got out the real rains had begun again and washed the blood away. The stone was dark with the water, and he put a hand on the angel’s face. It felt cold.

“I know what I saw,” Siri insisted, and Antony looked at the statue’s empty sockets. He said this was all very troubling, and led them back inside.

 


	7. Septus

“I believe Melody is possessed by a demon,” the priest was saying.

Craig Boone stared at him with red eyes, a cheeseburger dripping sauce between his fingers onto a white plate. He paused, and opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it and didn’t say anything. Antony sat forward in his seat.

They were sat opposite one another in the booth of a zero-star diner, the Dino Delight, at eleven thirty p.m. on a Monday evening. Craig had just gotten his first break after working a six hour shift, and had a little polystyrene cup of espresso clasped in his free hand. Antony glutted on a strawberry milkshake, washing down the French fries layered with mayo that made up his supper. There was ice cream in the shake sticking to the bottom of the glass, and he swirled his straw around the base to bring it forward. Their waitress came over and filled Craig’s cup.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked in a husky smoke voice. She looked about eighteen; just out of school and rattling around with the boredom of small-town youth. Antony asked if they had any pie, and she said they had apple or cherry. He asked for a piece of the apple pie, and turned back to Craig.

“You don’t want anything?”

The waitress looked at him, and Craig ducked his head and sighed under their combined expectations. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

They watched her go, then Craig turned back to the priest. He leant forward, as though imparting a secret. “I had actually considered what you said just now. It had crossed my mind.”

Antony’s eyes returned to Craig, and he bobbed his head. He was using his reasonable voice. “Of course. You’re a Godly man, no matter what’s… got in the way of that in the past.”

“Still, though. I wonder if I oughta spend more time on the scientific side of things,” Craig nursed his coffee. “That’s what Diane would say to do. Although, again…” he lowered his voice. “I don’t know how much time I have to waste.”

Antony made a motion of agreement, “Exactly, my concerns exactly. I mean, consider this - she's acting out more and more violently, but each time she can't remember what happened. She won't come anywhere near the church. And I bet if I asked, you'd tell me she was having nightmares too.” Craig Boone looked up at the overhead lighting, flocked with flies stuck in the casing. He wondered how long some of the bugs had been up there; since the place opened probably. Twenty years or so, dead in a tube.

He said, “Well, yeah.”

Antony sucked his straw and made that annoying rattling sound children insist on producing in movie theatres and cheap restaurants. “It's a textbook case, Mr Boone. You don’t want to rush these things, but time of the essence. There is a tendency towards… escalation.”

A live fly crawled over Craig’s hand, and Craig felt the priest’s eyes drawn down to the kerchief wrapped around his palm. It was the same dressing from Sunday, and he read in the priest’s eyes that he remembered. Their waitress came over with a plate of apple pie; gold pastry going soft and yellowy apples gluing up the centre. She gave Antony a silver fork.

“You want to change that,” Antony nodded towards Craig’s hand, and Craig curled his fingers into the palm until they stung.

“You’re a doctor now too?”

“I took a first aid course in ‘91,” Antony said.

“Exorcism included?” Craig said, and the priest’s smile slipped.

“Something like that.”

The music coming out of the diner’s juke was a country song, quiet and pleasant. It was one they had on a lot around here; a woman singing about a man and his guitar. She always sounded so sad. Craig thought about how the priest looked strange in beige slacks and a red wool jumper. He began digging for money in his pockets to pay for the coffee and burger. A dollar. A dime.

“You look funny out of uniform,” he said to the priest.

“You look tired,” Antony replied.

“Yeah.” Craig dropped the money on the red linoleum table. “Sounds about right.” He drained his coffee halfway and glanced at the clock. He said he had ten minutes left on his break.

Antony broke the corner of his pie with the silver fork. “Mr Boone, I can see you’re still undecided. Good, it’s not something to rush into, but I think you have to understand I’m coming to you from a place of utmost professionalism.”

Craig listened.

The priest stabbed a pie segment, “Consider that I’ve been in contact with the sect of our church that’s dealt with the exorcisms for almost a decade now, and to current date I’ve have performed seventy five exorcisms. That’s not a _lot_ for ten years, Mr Boone; I don’t go recommending this procedure to all and sundry. But those to whom I have provided this service have been out of town, in town, out of county, in county; I’ve done it in Westside and the Las Vegas Strip. I know Latin backwards and I’ve got a contact in the Vatican.” He paused. “I’m dedicated and as good as you’ll get.”

“How do you know she’s possessed?” Craig asked. “I mean - I think there’s a possibility, I’m not saying one way or the other. Maybe even a likelihood. But Diane, that shrink… they keep saying stuff about the grieving process.”

 _I never saw anybody who grieved like that_ was always his reply, and he’d watch as people hid their exasperation.

Antony said, “Who’s her shrink?”

“Dr Marcus.”

“Good man,” Antony said, “But you know he’s an atheist.”

Craig indented a nail into the side of his cup. “I figured.”

“And listen Mr Boone - I won’t do the procedure until I’m sure,” Antony supped on the milkshake carefully. “There’ll be tests and if she fails them, nothing happens. She goes back to Dr Marcus and we’ve crossed one possibility off our list.”

Craig mulled it over, “I guess. Yeah.”

“How does Wednesday sound? In the daytime.”

“I get up around two,” he said after a moment. “You can come by the house at three.” Craig glanced at the clock again. “My break’s almost up.”

“Well, we’ve covered a lot of ground here,” Antony stuck out his hand. “I’ll see you Wednesday, Mr Boone.”

Craig looked at the priest’s hand and quirked an eyebrow. He slid the coins he’d dropped to the centre of the table and slipped out the booth, the red pleather seating peeling off the square of his back. Antony watched him go thoughtfully. He finished off his strawberry milkshake and bulked up his side of the bill with a tip of three dollars, then went outside to smoke a cigarette in the night. The air was nice and cool and the neon gave him enough light by which he could dig out his pager. He tapped 111-3-0 (‘Wed’) and sent it to Vulpes Inculta.

***

The next day was a Tuesday, and Diane rose blearily in the dark hours of morning to get to a dispute at the Gecko household that had dragged a bunch of local cops out of bed. The Freeside police were familiar with the family: they’d threatened Benny with juvie earlier in the year for shoplifting, and the kid’s dad had been in and out of jail all his life; petty gang stuff, mostly. Diane suspected the cops just wanted to clear them out of the neighbourhood.

Luckily, when she arrived she recognised the arresting officer and managed to talk him down by questioning the warrant. Once the cop and his bud packed up back into their cruiser, not one of the Geckos gave her so much as a thank you. It ticked her off to see Benny had a new lump on the top of his forehead.

“How’d that happen?” Diane asked.

It was four twenty in the morning still, and the rolling blue and red lights of the cop car washed over the kid’s face. His dad had gone back to bed, but the mom was smoking on the porch still.

“Benny, c’m here.” she said. He trotted over, and she fussed with his hair and asked if he wanted a sandwich.

Diane wasn’t impressed.

“Mrs Gecko, I think it better if Benny comes with me for a few days until we can get this straightened out.”

The mother looked like she was going to kick off, her hackles raising like one of the mongrels that littered Freeside’s streets. But then she shrugged, thinking better of it. She headed into the house with a lope.

Diane felt a cold pit deep in her stomach, and she put her hand on the kid’s shoulder. He shrugged it off.

The social worker slipped inside to grab some clothes, and then loaded the bag into her car; aware that she’d just bought herself a pile of paperwork when there were clients she dealt with who had it a lot worse than Benny. They stopped off at Mom’s all-night diner for breakfast, and she got him a cheeseburger and fries. Diane swallowed cheap coffee and eavesdropped on the sleepy conversations around them as Benny proved sullenly unresponsive. He wrote _fuck you_ in the condensation dripping down the window.

“You’ve got neat handwriting,” Diane said. It was round and fat, like a third grade girl’s.

He glowered, and crammed some french fries into his mouth, then chewed noisily and openly in an attempt to disgust her. She looked away.

When Diane got up to pay the bill, she overheard the server at the bar talking to a trucker shooting espressos. They both smoked fitfully, and chatted about Jacobstown. The trucker was from there, and wanted the news. He had a faded red cap on his head with the name of his trucking company, and listened as the server talked to him through a small grey cloud. The server told him he’d heard there was a ruckus at the church on Sunday. Some kind of fight.

“I already know that,” the trucker said. “My little girl told me. Some kid attacked her pop and tried to kill the priest.”

“Kill the _priest_?”

“That’s what my daughter said,” the trucker drank his coffee. “Said the girl was screaming like a coyote, clawing, cursing. Spitting.”

“Yikes,” the server said. “Sounds like the town’s goin’ to hell.”

“Kids, though. They exaggerate.”

“Still.”

***

“ _Antony!_ ” Diane’s fist yammered at the door, breath washing over the black wood in the freezing night air. “ _Father_!” She rang his doorbell a few times, and took a step back, breathing heavily.  The Virgin Mary statuette glistened under her shaky torch. She resisted the urge to kick the wood.

“ _Antony, get out here!”_

She shouted up to his window:

“ _WAKE UP_!”

Diane’s cries sounded reedy even to her own ears, and for a moment she was brought back to that September afternoon with Keene and Dog in the gentle snow, crouching on the latter’s doorstep and begging to be let inside. It was funny how she forever seemed to be wiping her boots on someone’s welcome mat, peering through their front windows and listening for the creak of stairs as they dragged themselves out of bed. Never welcoming her call.

She saw a light switch on inside; glow muffled by thick curtains. It slowly spread through the house as its occupant descended the stairs. She rang the buzzer hard and bent her finger back.

_Bzz. Bzz. Bzz._

“I’m _coming_!” the voice was made distant by the thick walls of the house; now for the first time she heard an explosion of barking coming from within. A light in the hall switch on, and she felt something thud against the door. A woof, another.

Diane banged on the wood with the side of her fist; _hurry the fuck up_.

Antony scraped his key in the lock and cracked the door; the small opening held fast by a length of brassy chain. The priest’s face looked pained in the glow of the porch light. His dogs were barking behind him.

“ _Diane_ ?” he screwed up his face. “Do you know what _time_ it is?”

 _Time you stopped being a piece of shit,_ Diane thought, but nonchalantly made a show of checking her watch. She said in a falsely cheery voice; “Oh why it’s about five a.m., father!”

“What do you _want_?” the dogs were pressing their noses forwards to try and get a look at the stranger, and Antony was struggling to hold them back with a hand. They sounded enormous and Diane resisted the overwhelming urge to despair as the wind blew down off the mountain. She wrapped her coat around herself.

“Just let me inside.”

One of the dogs pushed forward and Diane saw a flash of teeth; Antony grabbed the thing’s muzzle and it bit him for his troubles. He stuck his finger in his mouth and said he had to get the dogs into the kitchen first, she’d wigged them out.

Diane resisted the urge to bristle at the priest shifting the blame onto _her_ back and clicked off the beam from her torch as she shoved it into her pocket. After a few minutes, Antony slid the chain off the door and told her she could come in; his study was the first door on the right. She could leave her shoes on: he guessed this would be a passing visit.

The study was dark with a bulb slow to warm, and made shrunken by three walls being lined with wooden bookshelves. There was a green sofa against the windows with papers spread across the seats, and two chairs facing a dark desk at the other end. Antony dragged one of them out and said she could sit there. He left to fetch a pot of coffee.

Diane saw there were framed photographs of Antony with other people on the walls and stepped around the seat to look at them. He was in the Vatican, at the Grand Canyon, somewhere in California. There was one with him and a severe looking man in Central America, and she leaned forwards. It was dated to the mid eighties, but Antony looked much the same as he did now. He must be older than she realised.

The door re-opening made her jump as though she’d been caught in the act of something, and Antony sighed as he motioned her back to the chair. He put a brown coffee pot on top of a file on his desk, and unpinched two mugs between his forefinger and thumb.

“Sit down please.”

Diane took a seat and Antony asked how she liked her coffee; she said she’d have it black and a font of dark liquid poured from the pot. She watched him add creamer and sweetener to his until it resembled dry desert earth frothing at its first summer rain. His cup was blue; hers a souvenir from Zion.

Antony gulped a mouthful and moved some papers around on his desk to find one worthy of playing coaster. “So, Diane. Do say your piece.”

“My _piece_ ,” Diane’s coffee steamed.  “Well, Antony, my _piece_ is all about the Boones. You agreed to keep me in the loop, and yet what do I hear from a damn trucker when I’m drinking mud in Mom’s at four a.m. this morning? Melody tried to kill you.”

Antony snorted and a drop of coffee escaped the mug. “She didn’t _try to kill me_ -”

“But something happened, didn’t it?”

“Only just. I was planning to get in touch.”

“Of course you were.” Diane’s line of work brought her into contact with a lot of bullshitters, some of whom were experts in their trade of heaping crap onto Diane’s plate and then swearing they had nothing to do with. She couldn’t quite tell if Antony was attempting to do the same. She repeated herself, “Of course you were.”

He waited.

“Just tell me what happened.”

The priest relayed the events of Sunday in-between delicate sips of coffee, and Diane tried to keep the mounting horror she felt bubbling up in her chest contained. A clock was ticking somewhere in the house, and every now and then the dogs would stir in the kitchen. Antony refilled her cup and placed his own down on the desk. He finished gently, “So you see, the problem is that Craig Boone now seems to think his daughter is possessed by a demon.”

Diane almost spilled her coffee at this plot twist of a summation. “ _Wow_ .” She shook her head and tried not to think about the paperwork that was coming her way. She’d never leave the office; why the _hell_ had she listened to Dr Marcus and let the church get  involved? “Astounding. Amazing. Thank you Antony.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Yes, what _do_ I mean? I wonder, hmm, who could have put that _fucking_ idea in his head?”

“I think it’s obvious,” Antony said, and held up a hand when she snorted. “The Boones were raised in the church. Craig especially. That’s where their roots are, and Craig has been trying to pull out since Melody’s mother died - and psychologically speaking, this has been deeply damaging. Now his daughter’s experiencing mental troubles so the way he sees it is this is his punishment for rejecting God,” he shrugged. “He’s wrong, of course.”

“‘His daughter’s experiencing mental troubles’,” Diane quoted the priest’s words back to him and stabbed the desk with her a finger. “ _Exactly._ So you go to the _psychiatrist_ or the therapist-”

“Yes Diane, _you do_. But Mr Boone doesn’t, because he distrusts Dr Marcus even more than he distrusts me. Which is quite significantly.”

“He’s pulling her out of her appointments.” Diane groaned as she leaned back in her chair; she’d heard the Boones had missed the last one due to ‘illness’ but given them the benefit of the doubt. More fool her.

“Yes.”

“Permanently?”

“Against my advice, yes. He doesn’t like doctors.”

“Who does he like?” Diane replied. “Not doctors, not the police, not me certainly. What’s his solution, if he won’t take help from any of us?”

“Not from _any_ of us,” Antony said, and Diane thought _oh._

“So you’re back in his good books again, are you? How did you manage that?” she realised her tone had grown quite hostile, but couldn’t bring herself to dial it down. “And what’s _your_ solution to Melody being ‘possessed’? Exorcism?”

Antony paused, cup hovering before his mouth, and Diane almost laughed. “ _No._ Antony, you cannot be serious, _no_. You did not discuss this with Craig Boone.”

“Diane, if yo-”

“Melody is a _child_ and she only just lost her mother. I will call CPS if either you or Mr Boone-”

“It’s not exorcism!” Antony cut in. “Diane, listen to me a second. It’s not an exorcism. Melody is not possessed. But Mr Boone thinks she is; _that’s_ what matters. Melody thinks she is as well; _that’s_ what matters. You have to look at it from their point of view and in Mr Boone’s eyes, his malcontent just opened up a good person’s body to demonic forces. I’m serious about this Diane, if we don’t work together to get that thought out of Craig’s head real damage will come to the family. I could even see him killing himself.”

Diane paused, shocked. “But he’s a Catholic. Isn’t that - a sin?”

“Yes, a mortal one. So now you’re grasping how serious the problem is,” Antony leaned forward. “I want nothing more than for the family to be saved. And I am willing to entertain _every_ solution that will give them a modicum of comfort. So you see I am completely willing to fake an exorcism in order to save Craig Boone’s life.”

Diane dragged in a breath and steepled her hands. “Fake an exorcism?”

“It’s a harmless ritual. Holy water, prayers, a few magic tricks - candles and lights, that sort of thing. Completely safe procedure when performed on an unpossessed body, which is what Melody is.” He said, quietly, “I checked.”

“You _checked_? How?”

“A few tests,” Antony said. “Nothing significant.”

“Why do I get the feeling you and I have very different ideas of the word ‘significant’?”

“She didn’t shirk a crucifix and holy water had no reaction to her skin. Nothing significant.” She allowed him this, and nodded grudgingly.

“When was this?”

“October.”

“And why haven’t you told Craig Boone?”

“Because he wouldn’t believe me unless he saw it with his own eyes. You’ve met the man - he’s very untrusting.” Diane found herself nodding again, and Antony went on. “If I do the ritual with him in the room, and prove it in a very physical way - smoke, lights, movie-style convulsions - it will remove the idea from his head, and he’ll be able to move on. It’s a way of... taking pressure off a person.”

“Movie-style convulsions?” Diane’s brow crinkled. “You’re that convincing?”

“Oh yes. I’m a professional, I assure you.”

“You’ve done a lot of these… fake exorcisms?”

Antony moved his hands, “‘A lot’ is perhaps an exaggeration. The number is around fifty, and none of them have ever involved a real demon. I don’t profess myself to be a doctor, but there is evidence that exorcisms can be of real psychological benefit. I can give you papers on that if you want to hear it from somebody else’s mouth.”

“That’s quite alright.”

“It’s all about what the exorcism represents. We're saying that Melody’s problems are being caused by an outside entity, and when we get rid of that entity, I believe it'll stop her from acting out. I’m providing a clean break, which is what Craig and Melody both need. With a clear mind, I think you’ll find her progress in therapy improves as well - she just needs a mental detox before she begins again.”

“I see.” Diane placed her cup down on the coaster; quite tired of listening to Antony speaking and badly wanting to crawl back into bed. She ached to talk this over with someone - Arcade, Beatrix, Julie - but could hear their derision without having to pick up the phone. What Antony was saying definitely made sense, much as it pained her to admit it. It made sense for the situation she was in; made sense for the family. Wasn’t that what she should be doing, molding herself around the case at hand? Doing what worked best for the Boones, rather than what was traditional?

It’d definitely help to sleep on it though. “Say I said this was allowable, hypothetically. When were you planning on doing this?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow-?” she swallowed back a curse. “Tomorrow. Of course you were.” She sat back. “I am going to be present, Antony.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“And this is off the books, isn’t it?”

“You bet.”

“Alright,” she shook her head and began to get shakily to her feet. She felt like she’d aged ten years since she woke up this morning. She told the priest that they would have to meet beforehand so he could describe to her _exactly_ what was going to happen, and he said that wouldn’t be an issue. He said she could come over here at ten a.m., or they could meet at a cafe somewhere if that was easier for her. Diane said a cafe would be best. She had a lot of other cases she needed to be working on.

 

 

 


	8. Octo

There was a water-stain under the windowsill that Craig would look at when he lay in bed. In the dim light of winter, the dark evenings and cold mornings, it was barely discernable, but as a night-worker it was the first and last thing he saw before sleep took him each day. The stain was greyish-brown, fringed at the edges in a deeper hue; it had come from rain wearing the sealant between the sill and the windows away. The water had crept in for a solid week until he fixed it. He remembered it very specifically as September, 1989; five years ago now. He’d been working security at the strip mall downtown, one of his first jobs after getting discharged from the military. It had been hard to find employment back then, economy the way it was. He’d taken anything, and used to drive by the gas station for a pack of cigs and then go on to Dunkin’ Donuts before it closed for a pink jelly ring. He’d consume both before his shift began at nine, and then would watch the security monitors for hours; blue-light gliding over his skin as he felt himself aging. Craig’d patrol the shut up food hall and the wide tiled corridors gripping his torch like a baton. On his break at midnight he’d eat the egg sandwiches Carla made, always damp from sitting too long. He never told her that he didn’t like egg, and even at the end, when they weren’t as close as they should have been, she’d still make his lunch and pack it in a tupperware. White-sliced with mayo. Squash, crisps. The full box left on the kitchen counter, the empty one returned as dawn bled over the house. 1989 they’d had a little more money, and sometimes he’d buy a second donut from Dunkin’ Donuts when it opened at five, just on his drive back. He’d put it in the empty tupperware as a surprise for Carla. A vanilla sprinkle. A Boston creme.

Carla’s sister, Marie, had been staying with them that winter. She’d moved in on the casual pretext of getting to know her niece, but really it was so Carla could have a little more time to herself. He remembered sitting one morning after getting in from work, with Marie whispering over a silty cup of filter coffee, her hand on Melody’s head. Words like 'clinical’ and ‘postnatal depression’ punctured the air between them. Melody’s curls sprouted up between Marie’s dry fingers, plant-like. 

“There’s drugs for it now, Craig. Pills. You can just go to the doctor for it,” Marie had informed him, her breath cloudy from the coffee grits. “Get a Xanax prescription.”

He’d said, “Uh huh.”

“This isn’t the middle ages, you know. People don’t have to suffer in silence anymore.”

He’d thought,  _ but they still have to suffer _ . Carla’s decision was the volume at which she would do so, and they never did have that conversation about Xanax like Marie would have wanted. He thought that was because - because one’s own mental anguish was one’s own. Not that he’d ever phrase it as such aloud; in his head, he was always at his most eloquent. When he spoke, he became minimalist -  _ Uh huh. Yup. Is that so?  _ Once Carla had tapped him on the temple, their bodies shucked up in bedding and his arms. They’d been having a bare conversation about his last tour in the Middle East.

“I think you keep half the conversation to yourself,” she’d said. “Or more. You’re like an iceberg.”

That had been very early in their relationship. They were still living in Vegas, and car horns beeped outside their window. “An iceberg?”

“Yes. You know something like two thirds of an iceberg is underwater? We never get to see it.”

He said, without being sure, “I know.”

“It’s what sunk the Titanic.”

Someone swore in the street outside their room, and an argument began. They listened carefully, ears straining to catch slights and accusations, then fell asleep. They never did go back to that iceberg conversation, but Craig remembered it now whilst looking at the water stain. He wondered if the problem was bigger underneath the surface - if the walls had got rot. Sometimes, if it were dry rot, you had no idea what was going on until a floor collapsed, or a roof caved in. To bed one day with house intact, and then the next you were thousands of dollars in the red with a room open to elements. That was a worrying thought. He made a note to look up a way to check for dry rot next time he passed the town library, when all this was over.  Although if it turned out there  _ was _ a problem, he didn’t know what he’d do. Their rainy day fund had been utterly depleted as of three years ago.

He pressed a fingertip against the stain, and rubbed the pad against his thumb. It felt dry, but you never knew. Craig dug a finger into the soft plaster, and felt something move under his hand. A vibration, almost; a scuttling. He scored his finger down the wallpaper and peeled off a length of five centimetres. The exposed wall was flat and cool beneath, but he tore outwards. The paper began littering the carpet in sheafs as he harvested, occasionally feeling something bump up against his thumb. There was something there, something quick and unpleasant. Maybe worse than mould or blight; vermin? He laid his hand flat against the wound, then shifted forwards in bed. Craig picked up a glass from the bedside table and pressed it against the mark where the water stain had been. The remnants of last night’s milk dripped down the wall in a  solitary march. He put his ear against the cup, and listened, straining.

Nothing. As silent as you’d expect the wall of a detached house to be. Craig waited with his left hand resting against it for balance. He waited for ten minutes, until the milk drip had long fled the white-washed wall to soak into the carpet; until the warmth of his body had renounced the bed. The hairs on his arms outstretched into the morning. He clawed at the bare patch again, and the hole in the wallpaper grew large enough to fit the form of an infant, then a small child. He whittled a thick head of dandruff for the carpet, paint skin bunching up underneath his fingernails and pricking the soft sensitive flesh there. It was cold work, and his goosebumps rose as the debris multiplied.

Nothing. The wall was just a wall. No rot, no movement.

It was just a house, and he’d made a mess for nothing.

Craig picked the paper off the carpet and scooped it into the bin. He scrubbed at the milk drips with a cloth, and checked the watch on the bedside table. It was six. Melody would be up soon, probably. He should make breakfast and tidy the house for the priest. He wondered if they had the stuff for pancakes.

***

‘ _ Oh, the girls all dance with the boys from the city, and they don’t care to dance with me.’ _

It was lunchtime, and Diane was up from her desk and cutting through to the break room to retrieve her tupperware from the fridge. A radio sat on the counter by the microwave, tuned to Taste of Country; her boss’ station of choice. Julie had gone out five minutes prior to meet with a client at Mom’s burger joint though, so the music was the choice of whoever got there first. She took the remnants of last night’s takeaway out of the fridge and tipped them into a bowl; picking out the prawns which she thought it unwise to resurrect. She set the microwave for two minutes and tapped a foot.

“Hey,” Arcade said. He was sitting at the break room’s only table, entertaining an audience of three empty chairs. His blonde head was perfumed by a cloud of menthol smoke, and his lunch looked to be a flat, sad cheese sandwich. He broke the tab on a can of cola. “What you eating?”

“Uh...don’t know,” the microwave hadn’t started when she’d pressed the ‘cook’ button, so she tried again. “Chinese.”

“Cool,” Arcade sipped the froth off the top of the can and tapped his cigarette. For some reason, Diane felt the silence yawning into static between them, and she glanced at him. He twitched.

“You ok, Arcade?”

“Yeah, awesome. So what you working on today? Benny still?”

“Mm,” she pressed ‘cook’ on the microwave again, then re-opened and shut the door to see if that helped. Maybe it had been ajar. “I need to look into finding him a foster family for now and visit with his mom to see what’s up with her. See if I can passive-aggressively leaflet her into changing her life or whatever. I’m still trying to find a cheap baby-sitter for Melody too, but,” she shrugged. “Don’t know how likely that is.”

“Cool, cool,” he said. “So...no improvement on the Melody situation?”

“Nah.”

“And… she’s back at Sunday school? I know you said there was that scene in the cemetery a week ago or whatever...”

Diane looked up quizzically at this sudden turn the conversation had taken. Arcade tapped his cigarette.

“Did I say that?” she said. “Mm-hm.”

“Are the Church still involved?” Diane thought to her meeting with Anthony earlier in the day, and their plans for the evening. His demos of dry ice and little gadgets; nonsense Latin and ways to trip a house's electric. She felt a headache forming. “In a way,  _ I guess _ , the way they always are in those little hick towns.”

“Cool,” Arcade peeled the Kraft cheese out of his sandwich, and began to pick at the square. Diane couldn’t remember whether he’d always been such a nervous eater. “Well, maybe try and pull back on that.”

_ He doesn't know anything. There's no way he could _ . 

“Pull back on the Church’s involvement?”

“Yeah, if they’re not, you know,  _ crucial  _ to the case. Which I guess they’re not.”

‘ _ And it’s under my nails and it’s under my collar, and it shows on my Sunday clothes.’  _ The radio filled the space between them, and Arcade tapped the ash off the tip of his cigarette. He didn’t say anything else, and Diane’s attempt to probe elaboration by stonewalling him turned up nothing. She’d never heard him so reticent, so stilted. This was about something else, but she didn’t have time to sit and figure out what.

He finished his lunch and said he was going to the corner shop for cigs, asked whether she wanted anything. She said no and asked if the microwave was broken, still pummelling the green ‘cook’ button with her thumb. 

Arcade said, “If it is, you broke it.” And left.

***

The social worker had wanted to carpool to the Boones’ house, but Antony had discouraged her, saying people like Craig were often paranoid about authorities being ‘in cahoots’ with one another.

“But we  _ are _ in cahoots,” Diane had replied.

Antony had wrinkled his nose. “Hardly. I’m doing my job and you’re doing yours, they just happen to coincide. ‘Cahoots’ has such a negative feel.”

Diane resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she didn’t have time to argue over semantics. “Yes, and they coincide enough that we’ll be going to the same place at the same time. That isn’t conspiracy, Antony, that’s just being practical.”

“Mr Boone won’t see it that way.” Exasperation was creeping into the priest’s voice. “I’ve only just managed to get him on-side, the last thing we need is to spook him by rolling up in the front seat together, singing along to the radio.”

His tone was humourless, and neither cracked a smile. 

“I’m uncomfortable leaving you alone with the family,” Diane said, after a moment. 

“I know.”

She’d asked what time he was arriving, and he’d said three. She said she’d be there at ten past, and was strict that he should stick to living room small talk in the meantime.

“Of course."

It was a quarter to three when he pulled up the Boones’ road, tyres crunching over the gravel. He’d considered walking up from the church, bringing the dogs for exercise, but that morning the weatherman had threatened sleet and rain from three till five, and he didn’t want to risk it. The static climbed louder the further he got up the drive, and by the time he drew up to the house it had long drowned out Marty Robbins’ bumbling guitar. The blue truck he’d seen the Boones using last weekend was gone again, so he was able to pull up in its spot before killing the motor. He’d leave his kit in the car until Diane arrived: she wanted to check he hadn’t added anything ‘unethical’.

Anthony checked his teeth in the wing-mirror and flattened his hair. He felt the eyes of a neighbour following him as he approached the front door, and turned to see Daisy Whitman pinning out shirts on the line. He raised a hand. She turned away. He knocked on the door.

Craig Boone answered almost immediately, wearing an ironed shirt and dopey eyes.  He motioned Anthony in and the priest stamped the rainwater off his boots on the welcome mat before entering the house. Boone dissolved into the kitchen further up the hallway, leaving Antony to dither about whether they were a shoe-on or shoe-off house and eventually deciding not tracking mud into the carpet was probably the better call. He placed his shoes near the doorway on a rack, and wet his lips. As a priest, he had been in grieving homes many times before, but this was something different. It felt like a house fasting. There were only a few shoes on the rack, and no pictures on the greying walls, though he could see pale gaps in the wall where frames had hung. The air was so achingly still, and  _ dry _ . Antony could feel it gumming his lips as he opened his mouth to call Craig, to ask where he should put his coat, but before he could do so he was interrupted by a figure shyly emerging at the top of the stairs. The belle of the ball herself. 

“Hey Melody,” he said, “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine, Antony Lyle,” she said in a pale pink sort of voice. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thanks,” he said, shrugging off his anorak and giving it to the girl. Craig materialised halfway out the kitchen doorway, and Antony turned to give his host something to do with his hands. “Hate to impose on you right away, but do you have any coffee, Mr. Boone? We’re out back home and I didn’t realise until this afternoon; I’m gasping.”

“Oh, sure,” Craig said with a low nod; like a dog’s. “‘Course. Kitchen’s just through here… Mel, put the priest’s coat on one of the door hooks, not under the stairs.”

“I was gonna.”

Antony and Craig walked together into a yellow kitchen; recently cleaned and smelling of lemon. It was small in comparison to the rest of the house, but not cramped with only the two of them in it. The sunlight on Craig’s head cut tiny shafts through his stubbled buzz-cut, making it look like his skull was sprinkled with powdered glass. The walls were mottled by rows of faded daisies, grubby above the cooker and dissolved away completely by the door. Antony remembered how Diane had said Rex was killed in the kitchen. Perhaps here.

“Sorry about the mess,” Craig interrupted Antony’s thoughts, picking a mug off the counter and dropping it into the sink. Thoughtlessly he began to wash it, and the sweet smell of washing up liquid filled the air. “It’s an uphill battle sometimes. I work nights, you know.”

“I know,” Antony said, watching Craig reaching for the cupboard with one hand dripping suds, leaving a soapy snail trail on the cabinet. He pulled out a metal tin of coffee and snapped through the seal with a thumb before peeling it off in a corkscrew. Antony asked if Craig had any sweetener for the coffee. He didn’t, of course.

Antony said he’d take it with sugar instead, two teaspoons, plus creamer. Milky sweet, please. Craig said he’d bring it through and told Antony he could sit in the living room while he waited. 

The stillness followed Antony through the house as he padded over the pile carpet, finding the living room near the front of the house by the muffled sounds of television. The door was almost closed, and he tapped hesitantly with two fingers before prodding it open. Melody was parked cross-legged inches before the screen, a cartoon playing in front of her. A cup of fruit squash sat on top of a book by her left knee, untouched but precariously balanced. He moved it onto the low coffee table, and Melody twitched.

“Sorry. I thought you heard me come in,” Antony didn’t sit down, but stood whilst talking to her, looking through the bay windows at the front of the house. He could see his car in the driveway, and the washing on the neighbour’s line - floral blouses in purples and greens, wafting gently, spotting in the rain. He nodded his head. “Is that Daisy Whitman’s place?”

“Yes. But I’m not allowed over there anymore,” Melody said. “I used to play in her garden because it’s bigger than ours. Our land is connected, but now I’m not allowed over where the rosebushes are in summer. That’s where her property is.”

“Do you think she might build a fence?” Antony said.

“Maybe when the weather gets good again. She has a nephew who comes over sometimes, he could do it. He’s super tall.” Melody stayed watching the television throughout the entire speech; moving her mouth but not her eyes. “She has TV channels.”

“Do you not?”

“Only sometimes. This is a video I’m watching. Dad says he has got a friend that can get us cable for free. But not until the summer.”

“That’s no good,” Antony said. “In summer you’ll be too busy doing cartwheels and eating barbeque. You want it now, really.”

Melody looked at him with the solemnity of a child, “Yeah I know. But I don’t like to stress Dad out about it. And you shouldn’t either. He has enough on his plate.”

The cartoon showed a grey cat being tortured by a mouse. The mouse had set electrical wires over the doorframe in the kitchen to trip the cat, and was waiting with an iron to drop on the creature’s head once it fell. Antony averted his gaze back to Melody. He said, “What else is on his plate?”

The lights from the TV flickered over the child’s face, and he watched her eyes close off. “Um. Lots of stuff.”

“Melody, I’m a priest,” he put a hand on his breast. “There’s no judgement in telling me.”

She still didn’t look at him, “Well…”

The crunch of gravel signalled Diane’s car pulling up the lane, and whatever Melody might have been about to say dried up. Antony’s irritation ticked as Melody darted from of the living room to the front door, and in the next moment Craig came through with the coffee. He wanted to know who was outside, whether Antony had invited anyone else, and stood stock-still with the pot steaming plumes in his hand. It smelled very bitter, and mingled with the dust in the room headily. Antony made a show of looking out of the window, pulling back the curtains.

“It’s Diane, isn’t it? That’s her car,” he said. “She insisted on being present for the consultation,” Antony let the curtain drop back, “Or she’d call the CPS. I said she’d have to talk it through with you first; she was supposed to call the house last night.”

“Last night? I was working.”

“Oh, she seemed to be under the impression you had the day off…” Antony let the words hang. “I’ll go out and have a word with her.”

“It’s ...ok. She can come in.”

“Still, it’s unprofessional. She was supposed to be round at three, and it’s now-” he glanced at the clock. “Quarter past. If we do decide that the ritual is appropriate, I, we, can’t have half-efforts. This might be Melody’s life we’re fighting to save. Yours, certainly. I need to talk to her. There’s stuff I have to haul out of the car anyway.”

Craig looked uncomfortable, and didn’t say anything, but set the coffee pot down and gestured the doorway to Antony. He muttered something about getting another mug for Diane, and Antony slipped out of the room and into the hallway. Melody was stalling Diane at the doorway,  blocking her entrance whilst it drizzled outside. Rainwater was leaking into the hood of Diane’s jacket.

“We had pancakes for breakfast,” Melody was saying, “And I had chocolate spread on mine.”

“Yum yum,” Diane said, catching Antony’s eye. She nodded. “Hello.”

“Diane,” Antony put a hand in the small of Melody’s back to shunt her towards the living room, and his fingers prickled with a tiny static shock. She ran off, and Diane made a move to duck in. He stopped her. He said they had to have a conversation before she went into the house. 

“It’s raining,” Diane said. 

“I’ll talk fast,” Antony said, and took the catch off the front door. He shut it behind them.

“I just want to tell you now,” he said, “I am definitely doing an exorcism.”

He watched her face crumple; she’d been hoping it wouldn’t be necessary, he could tell. “What about the  _ consultation _ ? You talked to me about - last port of call! One in a  _ hundred  _ cases needing exorcism!” She jabbed a finger and water sprayed off into the air.

“I consulted. The energy in that house is terrible,” he lowered his voice. “It’s stale, oppressive, and-” he flexed a hand. “Full of static. Mr. Boone is very cagey and withdrawn and Melody has gotten - strange. She doesn’t talk to me like I’m her priest anymore.”

Diane snorted softly. “Well that settles it then.”

He looked at her. “Diane, please take this seriously. She’s grown up in the Church, and she’s acting as though I’m - Pete the mailman? She used my first name and my surname - it was over-familiar and plain weird. She didn’t turn away from the TV throughout a whole conversation -”

“That’s pretty normal.”

“For the type of kids you’re used to, maybe, but Melody? How long have you been consulting with the family, by the way? Were you there when Carla was?”

Diane shook her head; droplets rained down on Antony’s sweater. “No.”

“They were very different. Craig has always been Craig, but Melody was a different person.” He didn’t pause, “I want to bless the house and do the exorcism. They think they have a ‘problem’; go in there and see for yourself. They’re thinking themselves sick; it hangs over every conversation. This is one of the most textbook cases for faking a ritual I’ve ever seen.”

Diane didn’t flinch. “Why do I feel like this was always going to be your conclusion?”

“Because you’re a suspicious person who’s paranoid about the Church. You read too many of those Boston articles and hated getting dragged to Christmas services as a kid. Maybe your priest was a letch or a drunk. Maybe not. I can’t say I care. But can you please be a professional and try and focus on what we’re doing here? I know it’s a little unconventional to you, but,” he spread his hands, and he saw her eyes flit down, as though checking they were empty. “Not to the Boones, and they’re who matter.”

Diane didn’t say anything for a moment, and Antony thought he had made her ashamed. He wondered whether this conversation would come back to bite him, but before he could apologise in an attempt to smooth things over, she nodded. She swiped the water off her face and said she hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep lately. Winter was always a hard time at work, and she’d lost a colleague recently so had more cases than was supposed to be allowed. She said she was worried about a friend who was drinking too much and that she’d had a cough all week that was keeping her up. It was hard to do this work on half-sleep. It was hard making so little progress with Melody after all the money they’d spent on therapists and call-out visits in the tiny hours of night. It was just hard.

“I know,” Antony said, and pulled her out of the rain. “Mr Boone’s put on a pot of coffee inside. Get yourself some. I’ll bring the bag in from the car.”

“Thanks,” Diane near-slithered indoors, sopping rainwater over his feet, and Antony took a minute to collect himself on the porch. The cedars across the road were shaking in the wind, throwing water onto the grass and drumming the roof of his car. He saw Daisy Whitman had finished pinning out her washing and there was a full set of bedding exposed to the grey heavens; white sails ripping on the line like clouds. A single pair of black woolen tights hung bending and bowing, so animated by the weather it was as though they were attempting to take flight. He thought the line looked ready to snap in half. 


	9. Novem

They drank the coffee Craig made in the living room for the next half hour; Melody watching the TV with the volume off and the colours bright. Diane made a show of explaining how Craig could stop the procedure at any time if he wanted; Antony rebuked that an exorcism begun had to be finished in order to cleanse the host. Otherwise no end of trouble would ensue; the demon might even follow him home to his house. Craig said, “Rather you than me,” and they all looked at one another in astonishment that he’d cracked a joke. Antony smiled only weakly, and Diane poured herself another cup of coffee as the pot ran dry. Craig offered a re-stocking, and Antony glanced at his watch and said they’d better start in twenty if that was alright with him. It was good to start these things on the hour. Craig demurred; Diane followed him to the kitchen with wringing hands. 

The rain was peppering the curtains of a window left ajar, and Craig leant over the sink to slam the thing shut. He turned to look upon his little follower, taking Diane’s dreg-lined cup out of her hands. She felt the coffee hot upon her breath.

“Craig,” she said, moving the grits about her mouth. “What makes you think it’s a demon?”

“I know,” Craig poured water into the kettle. His hands seemed steady. “I know my own daughter, and that ain’t her. It is, but it ain’t. Melody is a sweet, sweet girl.”

“Yes. But trauma-”

“I  _ know  _ trauma,” Craig didn’t hiss the words; he wasn’t angry. He was stating facts as he lit the gas on the cooker and put the kettle in place. He looked at her with his flat eyes. “More intimately than you.”

“Trauma manifests differently, in grief-”

“I know  _ grief _ , Diane,” Craig said. “And I know why this has happened to us. I’ve done wrong; I thought losing Carla was my punishment for that. Maybe it was; but then,” he pressed his lips into a line. “Just say punishment for evil is never done if you do not repent. Melody is on me.”

“Repent?” Why was he having this turn of conversation with her and not Antony? Well, she had asked, but already she felt out of her depth and clawed at clarity through questions. Agnosticism failed to throw her a lifeline and she was gagging on the stillness of the Boones’ home. “Craig, what’s there to repent for?”

The hiss of the gas in the ring emphasised the man’s pause, and when he looked at her again his eyes looked flatter than ever. She could tell by the shape of his face that he had not slept well in a long time. The sun passed through a cloud and sailed for a brief moment; Craig’s body fell into the darkness of silhouette. It shrouded his expression when he spoke; “I’ve failed God in so many ways.”

“Like?”

“That’s all,” Craig turned away from her now; the sun came out and showed his face to be apathetic. Diane would not consider it a breakthrough, anymore than she’d consider herself to have had an impact on this entire situation. She was as involved as the wallpaper scrubbed clean of Rex’s blood; marred by what was happening and only a physical reminder to people of what had gone wrong. Of that there  _ was _ a mess, and that they were in it.

Diane exhaled shakily and wondered if Antony would schedule time for a smoke break during the exorcism.

_ Unlikely _ , she decided, and accepted another cup of coffee from her host. He shook the milk carton as an offering; she declined with eyes cast aside. She bit a dry lip. They trekked back into the living room and found candles lit, curtains drawn. The television screen still shone like a halo, but Melody had gotten up from kneeling before it to watch what Antony was doing. He had put a Bible on the coffee table and was showing her a long white candle. To Craig’s eye, it looked like the sort he’d lit last Sunday mass. He took it in his hand whilst Antony searched for the matches in a black duffel bag.

“You can use my lighter,” Diane pulled the yellow bic from her pocket, and Antony hesitated before considering this would be fine. Melody switched off the TV and they all settled into place; Craig and Diane on the couch, Melody in the cord armchair. Antony was the only one upright, and he lit the candle and asked Melody to hold it when he asked. He then extinguished it, and they were all robed in half-darkness; seepage coming through from the windows in the hallway and the curtain caught ajar on the radiator. Diane heard a clock tick somewhere in the house.

“The darkness is only so we can keep an eye on the candle,” Antony said. “Nothing more mysterious than that.”

Diane nodded, but realised people might not be able to see. She opened her mouth in the gloom, and the priest went on.

“When I talk it’s only to Melody, and it’s only Melody that should respond,” Diane saw the shape of him move, and put a hand on the girl’s. He was crouching down. “It’s just between you and me now, honey. None of this is going to hurt, so don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Melody said.

“Good,” Antony picked the Bible up off the table. “You can hold your dad’s hand if you want. We’re going to pray, and then test some things. Only if the tests get a reaction will we do the exorcism. Ok?”

“Yes,” Melody said, and Diane watched the girl take her dad’s hand. They clutched at one another; faces straight and serious. Antony picked the Bible off the table and ran through the Lord’s prayer. Then he asked that they all open their eyes and be watchful; handing the unlit candle to Melody. Melody’s expression was sober and calm. She was determined, and Diane wished she had had chance to talk to her properly before this had begun. She should have insisted; she would, after.

“Father in heaven,” Diane looked at the expression on Antony’s face; wondered what he was thinking. She reminded herself that this was not his first time. “We’re here because we love Melody Boone, but are concerned she has grown sick with an unclean spirit. If this is the case and we are on the right path, please send us a sign, Lord.” He closed his hands over one another, and lowered his head in meditation. There was a fluffing sound in the half-dark, and the candle Melody was holding erupted into light. Her shocked face became cavernous by the flame; eyes like a skull and mouth gaping. Craig stood and made an exclamation to God.

_ Fuck _ , Diane thought softly.  _ How did that happen? _

“Blow it out, Melody,” Antony instructed her, and she blew on the fire. The flame bobbed and weaved before her breath; bowing back and springing up. She tried again, and again.

“Father, it won’t go down!” she had begun to sound afraid, and he told her to relax. He took the candle out of her hands and snuffed it with a single blow.

_ Fuck _ , Diane thought as the priest laid it down on the table. He was very good.

Antony told Craig he could open the curtains now, and the grey light of day washed their faces like clothes in a river. Craig was turning the candle over in his hands; Melody gripping the arms of the chair.

“It’s not even warm,” Craig said. “It hasn’t dripped any wax.”

“Yes, I realise that,” Antony’s voice was calm, and he placed the Bible down. “Melody, how have you been feeling lately? Your dad tells me you have terrible nightmares.”

“Yeah, I do,” her voice had softened into something little. “I wake up screaming.”

“Anything else that’s changed these last few months? What do you dream about?”

“I can’t remember - I can’t remember what I dream about. I used to remember my dreams, but now I only - remember waking up. I think I sleepwalk,” she looked nervously at Diane. “Now there’s a lock outside my door so I don’t hurt anyone.”

Diane glanced at Craig, but he was watching his daughter. Antony urged her on.

“I have a sore throat, but I think that’s from screaming. And, umm. Sometimes I get a bad belly ache. And I’ve had a growth spurt.”

“Oh yeah? By how much?” Antony addressed this to Craig, who shrugged.

“Couple of inches, if I was guessing. Do you think that’s relevant?”

“Maybe,” Antony’s eyes shifted, and Diane realised she was growing uncomfortable. She took a quick sip of the coffee to calm her nerves and felt her pulse jump when Antony said they would proceed with the exorcism. He wanted to bless Melody’s room, which was where the ceremony would take place. He asked that Craig and Melody stay calm and pray together whilst he did this. He said Diane should come with him, as she wasn’t a believer. Diane almost shook with gratitude, and followed him up the stairs.

***

The back of her neck was sticky with sweat by the time she sat down shakily on Melody’s bed, and Diane reached to her wrist for a hair-tie, but found none there: she must have forgotten this morning. Antony in contrast was calm and collected, placing the duffel bag next to her and picking through its contents. He asked her how she was feeling.

“Queasy,” she said. “Horrible.”

“Oh?” he glanced up, surprised. “Is there-?”

“I think I might have food poisoning,” she said. “I reheated this regrettable take away at lunch, and I feel all… greasy and shifty.” She lay down on the bed, and dust cloyed at her mouth. “They need to air out this house.” 

“Yes, I’m going to add that in at the end of the ritual; it’s very oppressive, isn’t it?” he pulled some wiring out of the bag, and Diane rolled over onto her side. Antony frowned, “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“No, I don’t want to put the Boones off,” she propped up a head with one hand. “It doesn’t feel like I’m going to die anyway.”

“If you’re sure,” Antony began laying out the wiring in a pattern under the bed and around the room; Diane propped herself up further to watch what he was doing. She said, “Also, I think you might be right about the psychological benefits of a ritual. I actually think this will help the Boones a lot. They seem very responsive.”

“Your confidence thrills me,” Antony’s voice was muffled as he had his head in the cavity under the bed now, and Diane rolled onto her back to look at the ceiling. Melody had stuck small glow-in-the-dark stickers in the space above her head; stars and planets and more moons than the Earth deserved. The half-daylight from the window meant they only half-glowed, but Diane imagined at night that the effect was impressive. There might have been a hundred stickers.

Diane rolled over again and saw a darkening garden through curtains parted; the haze of sunlight slipping in the west. Melody’s room must be just above the kitchen; perhaps if Diane got up to look she would see the kitchen lights spread-eagle over the lawn. Whilst Antony moved around, Diane heard the sounds of pigeons in the wood hooting. The harsh caw of a crow flew over the house.

“How does the ritual go?” Diane asked. “Explain it to me again.”

“Well,” Antony was testing the speakers gently under the bed. “It’s a little spontaneous; sometimes I’ll do one thing before the other or skip a step depending on the mood. I’ll get Melody to lie down, we’ll pray and read some Bible verses in English and Latin. The bed will start to shake, I’ll mess with the lights and command the demon out and realise it’s fighting. The power of suggestion can be quite something on a child,” Antony was out from under the bed now, and kneeling on the carpet with his elbows resting on the duvet. She saw freckles she never knew he had: fading on the bridge of his nose. “She might panic, but don’t worry. That’s part of the process.”

“And you’re not going to use those electric rings, are you?” Antony had shown her small silver rings he intended to place on his fingers, with wires running up to a device in his sleeves. He’d done a demonstration on Diane’s temples in the cafe when they’d met at ten; a little bolt of electricity making her jump and exclaim.

“They’re  _ perfectly  _ safe to use on a child, Diane. It’s essentially a static shock.”

“No way, Antony.”

“I can do the same thing with a Bible anyway,” Antony said. “You lean in close, murmuring and gently resting the Bible again the person’s head, then all of a sudden you shout ‘the power of Christ compels you!’ and hit them with it. They jump like something’s passed through them! Faking an exorcism is just as much an audience art as it is for the ‘sufferer’. We want Mr Boone invested.”

“Yeah, she jumps because you just whacked her with a book! I don’t think that would convince me of supernatural occurrence,” Diane tried not to laugh. “No Bible bashing.”

“No Bible bashing,” Antony repeated, and sighed. “Fine.” He got up from the floor. He said he was pretty much done and Diane could go down to fetch the family up. Diane left him blessing the room with holy water and prayers. The hallway was dark when she padded out and she switched on all the lights as she made her way back to the living room to collect the family. She heard the sounds of voices, a man’s and a girl’s and a man’s again, lilting as they went up and down over a biblical passage. 

She hovered in the doorway, listening.

“...O fear the Lord, ye his saints: for there is no want to them that fear him.” Craig’s voice led the way; the sound of whispering others echoed around his words. The hairs on Diane’s arms were flat with sweat, but the door was mostly closed so she could not peek around to see who else was in the room. Her stomach slickened. “The young lions do lack, and suffer hunger: but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.”

She palmed the door.

“Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord.”

Melody had her head bowed in the armchair and her hand upon her father’s; Craig glanced up at Diane’s entrance but she saw they were alone. The acoustics in the old house must have tricked her. She smiled nervously and reached again for the hair band on her empty wrist.

“You can go up now,” Diane said. “It’s ready.”

“Alright,” Craig got to his feet and Melody followed suit; they led the way up the stairs and Diane shut the door of the living room behind them. She hated being the last one: since she was a child the fear of going up stairs with her back to the dark had always made her anxious. As though something were going to follow her up, to snatch at her heels and come into the bedroom whilst she slept. She turned every light switch on as she passed, and Craig made no argument of it. If anything, he seemed to understand.

Diane caught Melody at the door to her bedroom and put her hand on the child’s shoulder. She felt the wool of the little girl’s cardigan bristling underneath her fingers and crouched down.

“Melody, last chance,” she said. “If you don’t want to do this, tell me now and we’ll stop.”

Melody’s eyes shone out of her face. “I know. But I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody else,” she said. “I want to be well.”

“Ok,” Diane rubbed her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and felt a tiny static shock. She withdrew and stood upright. “Ok, Melody. Let’s go in.”

Diane shut the bedroom door behind them, and the priest asked Melody to make herself comfortable on the bed. She lay down; her dad stood at the foot at Diane’s side. Antony asked them to be silent and that he would only ask for help if they needed it; what he needed was their faith and love for Melody. Diane found herself willing the girl to get better as she isolated herself on the blue bedspread; watched the child’s hands twisting into pretzels. Ethically, she was already beginning to feel queasy, but Antony had the Bible aloft. He started with the Lord’s prayer in Latin.

“ _ Pater noster, qui es in caelis… _ ” he lit a stick of incense, and Melody closed her eyes.


	10. Decem

Half an hour later Diane was out of the room clutching her chest and thundering down the stairs. The aching wheeze was a flashback to her childhood; she hadn’t had real trouble from her asthma since then, but all the smoke from the incense had set it off, and of course her inhaler was in the fucking car. Just where it should be at the height of flu season.

The rain was blitzing down outside now; stomping the grass into pulpy slicks and bringing the worms out in writhing orgy. Diane staggered across the lawn with her jacket pulled up over her head, slipping in flat-soled sneakers. The trees had loosened leaves to sog the grass and the bonnet of her car; a few welded the gap between the car door and the vehicle and slapped down on her hands as she cracked it apart. Her inhaler was at the bottom of her handbag on the backseat. She took two puffs and gasped, hand on chest; easy breathing, never panic. Her lungs pumped slowly, and the rain trickled down the windscreen. She tried to sit upright.

The lights from the house shone down on the garden, and Diane knew Antony would want her to hurry back once she was feeling well. There could be no sense of _incompleteness_ in the ritual he’d stressed; he didn’t want the family getting put off and Melody’s demon ‘returning’ in a month after all their good work. And it was good work - Antony had thoroughly blessed Melody with holy water and prayers, Melody had convulsed and spoken in a deep voice Diane wouldn’t have guessed she had in her. They’d prayed as a group, and the demon sounds underneath the bed had flickered into life. Antony tripped the lights and they all blinked as one. Craig had looked afraid but been stoic, and Melody’s lips had tumbled with a call to God. Antony had said he would call for the demon to leave the host, and recited a recipe for French toast in Latin. He’d let Diane pick what the false incantation would be beforehand: normally he chose banana bread. It’d felt like a magic trick that Diane was a part of. Melody had said she could feel the demon twisting her insides; it didn’t want to leave. Craig’s eyes glistened.

“It’s just psychosomatics,” Antony had said in the cafe that morning. “Exorcism is release. That’s all it’s ever been.”

“So do you not believe in demons?” Diane had said, and the priest had shifted.

“Do I not believe in demons? Well, as a Catholic, I kind of have to,” Antony’s reply had been evasive. “Let’s just say they’re a lot less common than people would have you believe. And nearly always abstract - mental imbalance, untreated conditions. Guilt.” She remembered his eyes looking down into his coffee cup; he’d swirled the contents and they watched the milky spiral ebb out. “I think that’s what we’ll deal with when we get to the Boones. I think there’s a lot of guilt there. Melody has taken it on.”

Diane thought back to the conversation with Craig in the kitchen. _No shit, Antony_. It was a house of internalisation: Ariadne touring the labyrinth without a hope of red thread.

Diane dragged on the inhaler again and heard her breath echoing in her lungs. The fresh air was doing wonders, even laden down by the rain, and she took her hand off her chest. She really ought to get back inside soon; if this ever got written up it wouldn’t look good to have left the family unsupervised for too long. She tucked the inhaler into her jacket pocket and checked the time on the dashboard; forty minutes had passed. She did a double-take; _forty minutes?_

“What the _fuck_ ?” Diane hit her head on the lip of the car door as she bolted to get out, and by the light of the Boone house she checked the time on her watch. Ten past five, _fucking hell_ , how had she been out there forty minutes? Ten, maybe, perhaps fifteen, but -

 _Did I doze off?_ She staggered across the lawn, feet sliding on the black grass and things catching in her shoes. What was this now? Her hand swiped at the ground, and she felt something wet and slimy. What the -

It was Daisy Whitman’s shirts: they’d snapped off the line and blown across Craig’s lawn. They were all over the place; mottled ghosts loosed to roam the earth. She’d gather them up, but she wanted to get back inside, so the shirt was dropped on the floor with a too-loud _plaf._ There were rivers running through the grass now as the soil reached saturation and poured its burden out over her feet. Diane’s heart was beating overtime as she bounded back up the house, breath catching in her lungs the closer she got. It was like a gate had gone over her windpipe, even though she’d had a breather for-

 _Forty fucking minutes_.

The front door was locked: she had definitely taken the catch off. She hammered on the glass and tried the bell, which she knew was broken. She shouted through the letterbox and peered inside: the lights were all still on but she could hear a faint buzzing. The demon sounds Antony had in the cassette player, maybe? Just as long as it wasn’t the fucking electric shock ring…

“ _Hey!_ ” Diane shouted, “Let me in!”

She hammered the door and waited, heart pounding like a knocker. _Boom, boom, boom._ There was movement inside the house, something passing through the hallway. She peered inside: empty. Fuck, fuck.

She rattled the door handle and tried not to scream; didn’t want to wake Daisy, Arcade said she was aging badly. God knew what that meant. Diane called Antony and Craig, shouting up the windows. Somebody hammered down the stairs, and at last -

“ _Diane_!” Craig dragged her inside; she dripped all over that mat in liquid form. “Shit, are you alright?”

“Sorry, I took so long,” it was an effort not to cripple over with her hands resting on her knees, but Diane knew that was a terrible position for compressing her lungs and stood bolt upright. Dust crammed itself into her mouth.

“So long? It’s been what, ten minutes,” Craig asked if he could get her a towel.

“For-forty,” Diane said. “Forty minutes. What’s happened? Is Melody -?”

“The demon’s almost out,” Craig beamed, and hurried up the stairs two at a time. “Come on, they need us. Hurry up.”

“I -” Diane found herself left alone in the shadowed corridor before she knew it: fucking deja vu. Like Craig, she bounded up the stairs as quickly as possible; paranoia driving her before she felt something nip at her ankles. The bolt and chain on Melody’s door was swinging as she pushed it open, and she saw Melody snapped over the edge of the bed, throwing up into a wastebin. She smiled, weakly.

“Diane, Diane,” she threw up again, and Antony rubbed her back as he recited Latin in a soft voice.

“ _Parasti in conspectu meo mensam adversus eos, qui tribulant me…_ ”

Craig echoed the prayer back in English, through no familiarity of Latin but just knowing the beat of the words; “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…”

“ _Impinguasti in oleo caput meum, et calix meus redundat…_ ”

“Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over…”

The lights in the room were buzzing fitfully like fireflies caught; flexing and blossoming as their glow receded and grew. Diane wrapped her arms around herself and felt the weakness of her chest shaking her entire body. A window had been opened and a gale of air came in, rumpling her clothes. Melody vomited again, less this time.

“ _Etenim benignitas et misericordia subsequentur me omnibus diebus vitae meae_ …”

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…” Craig wanted to hold his daughter, Diane could tell, but was bound by his role until the priest released them with a gesture of completion. Melody was shivering, pink-cheeked.

“ _Et inhabitabo in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum_.” Antony finished, and the lights in the house all popped off. Darkness swallowed them up like a mouth; Diane exclaimed a shout and Craig spoke through the blindness to reach his daughter:

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

“Dad,” Melody cried, “Dad, I think the demon’s gone!”

“Is it?” they were still lost in the dark; Diane found her lighter in the pocket and made her way to the switch. She flicked it hopelessly and there was no response: Antony must have busted a fuse with his tricks. She could hear rustling, and Craig talking.

“Father, is the demon gone?”

“I believe so,” his voice sounded warm. “The negative energy has left your daughter and left the room; see the break of the lights and feel the cold sweet air? Diane, would you hand me your lighter? There are candles to guide us.”

“Thank the Lord,” Craig must have been crying, his voice sounded wet and slippery, and when the candles were lit Diane saw his eyes pink and bright. They looked clearer than she’d seen them before, and he picked Melody up and buried her in a hug. Antony said they would take the Eucharist together to ensure the demon was gone, and she watched the family partake and cry when the child kept it down. The candles in the room all stayed lit; their flames bobbing with the wind but keeping on. Antony said the family should eat together at the table and then recommended Melody sleep early, as she had been through a lot. He snuffed the incense and told Craig he should check the fuse box, and keep the house as well lit as possible for the rest of the night and then air it out in the day. Diane knew the priest wanted the father gone so he could pack up his kit, and she decided to take Melody to the bathroom to swab her face clean with a damp cloth. Her face was sticky and puffy from crying, but she was beaming.

“Diane, I’m clean already,” she said, although that patently wasn’t true.

Diane decided not to rain on her parade, and said, “I’m glad Melody.” She was, as well: so fucking grateful this had all played out the way Antony had said it would. The man was truly a professional, and perturbing as that thought was, he’d clearly saved the family. She wiped Melody clean and left the girl brushing her teeth. The lights came on as she stepped into the hallway, flooding the house with brightness. Water snaked down her back, but it had been warmed by her flesh and was not a chill. She went looking for that towel Craig had offered, and found the man talking to Antony in the hall. The priest was leaving.

“You won’t stay for dinner?” Craig asked.

“I’d better not. This is a time for you and Melody. Remember, Craig, I took the demon out of your house but it’s your job to keep him out. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“You will, Father,” Craig said, and Diane heard the sound of the shower being switched on upstairs. She hovered in the doorway, and Antony said, “We’d best be off.”

“Thank you,” the sincerity was unmistakeable as Craig addressed the priest, and to Diane’s surprise Craig Boone offered her the same gratitude. His skin was flushed, but he truly meant it. Diane said she would see him at their usual appointment next week for a catch-up, and wished them all the best. Antony was putting on his coat and lacing his boots, then they all stepped out into the night. The rain hadn’t let up, and the moon was all but blank; buried in a deep grave of cloud. The wind blew wet hair across Diane’s face and loosened the water to stream down her neck. Craig waved them off, and shut the door before the cold got in. Diane fisted her hands in her pockets.

“I almost wish we’d carpooled,” Diane said. “I could do with a detox.”

“I’m beat,” Antony said, and he sounded it. “Phew. Quite a thing, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me,” they crossed the lawn in a pair, and Diane looked for Daisy Whitman’s clothes to point out to Antony but couldn’t see them in the dark. The neighbour must have fetched them back. “Did you mean to bust their fuse?”

Antony half-laughed, “No, that was a miscalculation on my part. Still, it worked well, didn’t it?”

“I jumped out of my skin!”

“Sorry. And sorry about the incense, too,” he sounded rueful. “You should have told me you were an asthmatic, I never would have used it.”

“I’m not. Or, I haven’t been since I was a kid anyway,” Diane reached the lump of her car and hovered. Rain beat down on her head. “Antony. It was all you, wasn’t it? All the lights, the candle, the-”

“Yes, Diane,” if it were not so gloomy she thought his eyes would have been twinkling. “It was all me.”

“I thought so.” She scraped her keys in the lock and considered a moment. “It’s easier if I pull out first, I think.”

The priest made a noise of agreement, and then they paused. Diane listened to the sounds of the night. “I want to thank you, Antony. Seriously, you saved the day.”

“It is my job.”

“Still. I think you’ve made a real difference to the family,” she said. “And, well. I was wrong. So there you go.”

“There I go,” Antony echoed. He tapped the bonnet of her vehicle. “Thanks for saying so, Diane. Drive safe.”

“Drive safe,” she ducked into her car and found the seat still slick with water from before, with the damp coming through her trousers and chilling her skin. The question of what to have for dinner hung over her mind as she started the car; no food in the house and that queasiness still in her stomach but she was hungry… what to do? _A takeaway might make me hurl_ , she mused as she pulled out of the soft drive; gravel and mud squashing under her tires. She signalled a wave to Antony that she was off and she thought she saw his hand grope back in the dark. Then she was away: inching forward in the night with the headlights on and the road shining blind as the absent moon. One of Daisy Whitman’s sheets was twisted in the lane, and for a wild, tired moment Diane thought it a naked body before remembering the neighbour’s snapped washing line. She got out of her car and heaped it on the side of the road with a gesture to Antony she was sure he missed. The cloth was wet and streaked with mud like a blood-slick. Diane got back into the car and locked the doors.

Then she drove off: thinking of motorway exits and diners along the route back to Vegas. It’d take over an hour at this time of night, and they’d forecast snow for the last leg of the journey, so she’d have that to contend with. Still, everything usually got a lot better once you’d made it out of the mountains, and she’d probably get back to her place about seven thirty, which wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

At the end of the road, the radio burst into life and VegasFM was treating them all to a Golden Oldies hour. Frank Sinatra sang Blue Moon with a lilting, soft voice; fuzzed over by poor signal so it sounded as though he were very far away. The static formed a second voice sometimes: an echo over his words so the song became a duet. Diane turned off left and the priest went right. The cedars eclipsed the Boone household, and Diane began her long journey through the flat black night.

  


END OF ACT 1


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